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COPYRIGHT DEI 















OUR LITTLE JUGOSLAV COUSIN 


Little Cousin Series 

(trade mark) 

Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates in 
tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover 
per volume, $1.00 


LIST OF TITLES 

By Col. F. A. Postnikov, Isaac Taylor 
Headland, Edward C. Butler, 
and Others 


Our Little African Cousin 
Our Little Alaskan Cousin 
Our Little Arabian Cousin 
Our Little Argentine Cousin 
Our Little Armenian Cousin 
Our Little Australian Cousin 
Our Little Austrian Cousin 
Our Little Belgian Cousin 
Our Little Bohemian Cousin 
Our Little Boer Cousin 
Our Little Brazilian Cousin 
Our Little Bulgarian Cousin 
Our Little Canadian Cousin 
of the Great Northwest 
Our Little Canadian Cousin 
of the Maritime Provinces 
Our Little Chinese Cousin 
Our Little Cossack Cousin 
Our Little Cuban Cousin 
Our Little Czecho-Slovac 
Cousin 

Our Little Danish Cousin 
Our Little Dutch Cousin 
Our Little Egyptian Cousin 
Our Little English Cousin 
Our Little Eskimo Cousin 
Our Little Finnish Cousin 
Our Little French Cousin 
Our Little German Cousin 
Our Little Grecian Cousin 
Our Little Hawaiian Cousin 


Our Little Hindu Cousin 
Our Little Hungarian Cousin 
Our Little Indian Cousin 
Our Little Irish Cousin 
Our Little Italian Cousin 
Our Little Japanese Cousin 
Our Little Jewish Cousin 
Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 
Our Little Korean Cousin 
Our Little Malayan (Brown) 
Cousin 

Our Little Mexican Cousin 
Our Little Norwegian Cousin 
Our Little Panama Cousin 
Our Little Persian Cousin 
Our Little Philippine Cousin 
Our Little Polish Cousin 
Our Little Porto Rican Cousin 
Our Little Portuguese Cousin 
Our Little Quebec Cousin 
Our Little Roumanian Cousin 
Our Little Russian Cousin 
Our Little Scotch Cousin 
Our Little Servian Cousin 
Our Little Siamese Cousin 
Our Little Spanish Cousin 
Our Little Swedish Cousin 
Our Little Swiss Cousin 
Our Little Turkish Cousin 
Our Little West Indian Cousin 


THE PAGE COMPANY 

53 Beacon Street Boston, Mass. 














MILOSH tending sheep. (See page 24.) 










| Our Little | 
I Jugoslav Cousin I 


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By 

Clara Vostrovsky Winlow 

Author of “Our Little Bohemian Cousin ” U 0ur Little 
Czecho-Slovak Cousin” “Our Little Roumanian 
Cousin” “Our Little Carthaginian 
Cousin of Long Ago ” etc. 


Illustrated 


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•I s 


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❖ 

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Boston 

L. C. Page and Company 

(incorporated) 

MDCCCCXXIII 


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is 4.4* 4 * 4 * 4 » 4 » 444*4* 444*4*444444 444*4*$? 








Copyright, 1923, by 
L. C. Page & Company 
(incorporated) 

All rights reserved 


Made in U. S. A. 


First Impression, May, 1923 


PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY 
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A. 


HAY 24 ’23 

©C1A70.4C66 



PREFACE 


Dear Children: 

This is a story of a people who, all belong¬ 
ing to one section of the Slavonic race, were 
long unwillingly kept apart by foreign dominat¬ 
ing governments. The Allies’ victory in the 
World War freed them and made their re-union 
possible. Whether or not this union will con¬ 
tinue indefinitely as the Kingdom of the Serbs, 
Croats, and Slovenes, or later become the re¬ 
public of which some idealists dream, or any 
other political changes take place, the essential 
oneness remains, and the pictures of life de¬ 
picted in this little book will continue on the 
whole true. 

As you read about Milosh, Churo, Zorka, 
and the others, with their many fine inherit¬ 
ances, I am sure that you will be glad with me 
of the possibilities of continued progress that 
have now opened up for these particular Little 
Cousins in the Old World. 

Clara Vostrovsky Winlow. 


I 

s 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGffi 

I A Croatian Country Home ... i 
II A School Day. 7 

III A Half Holiday. 11 

IV A Day at the Fair. 17 

V Summer Duties and Pleasures . . 24 

VI A Folk Nonsense Story .... 28 

VII In Dalmatia.35 

VIII The Adriatic.43 

IX The Land of the Black Mountain 47 

X Grgo and His Story. 54 

XI A Serbian’s Part in the World War 60 
XII The Guslar.64 

XIII Zorka’s Adventure.70 

XIV Visitors from Slavonia .... 74 

XV Autumn and Winter in Croatia . 80 

XVI Churo Tells How the Mighty Tsar 

Dushan Won the Fair Roksanda . 86 

XVII How the Mighty Tsar Dushan 
Won the Fair Roksanda (Con¬ 
cluded) .95 

XVIII Home Again.105 



















List of Illustrations 


PAGE 

Milosh tending sheep (see page 24) Frontispiece 
“What a colorful place it was! What 

A VARIETY OF COSTUMES WAS TO BE 
SEEN !” . 20 

“The city, under the bare limestone mass 

of Mt. Sergio, lay before them” . . 37 

“One of the gates . . . with frowning bas¬ 
tions AND A MEDIAEVAL WATCHTOWER^ . 38 

A SECTION OF THE ROAD ACROSS THE MOUN¬ 


TAINS .49 

The main street of the tiny capital — 

Cettinje.62 

Listening to a blind Guslar .64 

Zorka's Mother.72 







si 


Our Little Jugoslav 
Cousin 


CHAPTER I 

A CROATIAN COUNTRY HOME 

It was late afternoon on an April day in a 
little village in Croatia, near the borders of 
Bosnia, both of which states are part of the 
new Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and 
Slovenes. 

In the courtyard of one of the bright blue, 
plaster-covered brick houses, little three year 
old Zorka had just had one of her happy tum¬ 
bles. She was up in a minute, and trying to 
reach the blossoms with which the pear trees 
growing against the walls, and the low apricot 
and peach trees were already covered. She 
had succeeded in touching one with the tip of 
one of her little pink fingers, when her eleven 
year old brother, Milosh, came out to take her 
in to supper. 

“You’re dirty, Zorka,” Milosh said disap- 


2 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

provingly, and proceeded to brush off her 
dress. “I’ll wash you when we get in,” he 
added. 

Zorka hung on to her brother’s hand and 
gazed affectionately up at him. Milosh made 
some funny faces to cause her to laugh, and 
then smiled at her, and once even kissed her 
while he wiped her face and hands with the 
end of a wet towel. 

When they entered the living-room, Zorka’s 
father was already seated on a bench before 
a long table whose beautifully carved legs were 
some of his own work. The mother was bring¬ 
ing in a big dish of smoked mutton, sorne 
goat’s cheese, and boiled cornmeal. 

The house was furnished very simply, but 
there was a certain air of comfort about it. 
The big blue and green tiled stove, on which 
shone polished copper pots and at whose side 
stood a handloom, lent an especial air of 
brightness to the room. So did the colored 
earthenware that hung on hooks in a corner; 
the good-sized carved and stained baby crib, 
in which Zorka was still able to sleep, and, near 
the loom, the numerous long, gaily dyed hanks 
of flax and hemp hanging on special pegs. 
On the opposite side were strings of red pep¬ 
pers festooned against the wall, which the 


A Croatian Country Home 3 

mother, with an eye to the beauty of color 
contrast, had alternated with strings of on¬ 
ions and garlic. 

Potted rosemary mingled its spicy fragrance 
with that of dried herbs of various kinds that 
hung near the outer entrance. A painted 
high-backed chair, reserved for guests, stood 
unoccupied at the head of the table, while back 
of it was a tall home-made cupboard. On the 
wall opposite the stove hung two prints, one 
representing an old-time Croatian wedding 
and the other Mary Magdalene washing the 
feet of Jesus. 

Next to this living-room was a small and 
rather dark room, in which were two beds 
with straw mattresses covered with bright 
home-spun blankets of strange design. Be¬ 
tween the beds stood a big, strongly made 
chest in which the Sunday clothes and all the 
household treasures were kept. 

Several bunches of both dried and freshly 
gathered herbs and flowers had been placed on 
this chest, and before the mother sat down 
to slipper she brushed them all into her apron 
and threw them into a big tub of water. 

“Hurrah for St. George!” shouted Milosh 
as he watched her. Long before daylight he, 
as well as every other member of the family, 


4 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

would bathe in this perfumed water, for was 
not to-morrow April twenty-third or St. 
George’s Day? And didn’t everybody in the 
village observe the custom? Milosh did not 
know just why this was done, but he did 
know that the same ceremony had been per¬ 
formed even before his grandfather’s time. 
He shared the village belief, too, that if he let 
even the first ray of sunlight touch him be¬ 
fore he bathed, some misfortune would surely 
happen to him during the year. 

He was thinking of this when the door 
opened and a man walked in. The father 
arose with hands outstretched: 

"‘Welcome, Rade !” he said. “Sit down with 
us. Whatever we have is also yours.” 

The man shook hands, and taking off his tall 
sheep-skin cap, sat down at the head of the 
table. Then without ceremony he cut off a 
piece of the cornmeal with a string used for 
that purpose. 

He was evidently a Serbian rather than a 
Croatian, for in contrast with the blue eyes 
and light chestnut hair of his host, he had big 
brown eyes, dark hair, and a long, dark brown 
mustache. 

“Now tell us,” said the father when he saw 


A Croatian Country Home 5 

his guest had eaten a little, “how you found 
things in our big city Zagreb.” 

“Everything thriving,” responded Rade. “A 
great city that! It compares well with our 
Serbian Capital, Belgrade. I was taken among 
interesting folks,” he added after a pause. 
“Why, my cousin goes to the Academy, the one 
founded by Bishop Strossmayer, and he be¬ 
longs to an Art Club. You should hear the 
things they talk about! Seems as if hardly 
any one could paint a picture or make a statue 
to suit them. I remember some one they all 
praised though: It was our Dalmatian shep¬ 
herd sculptor, Ivan Mestrovich. They just 
couldn't stop talking about him. I asked my 
cousin what he had done and he showed me 
some figures and said they symbolized the 
union of all the Jugoslav States. He added 
that Mestrovich believed in this union long be¬ 
fore the World War made it a fact. I don’t 
know much about art, however, and I enjoyed 
the park and the botanical gardens more.” 

Here Milosh wanted to ask whether they 
were preparing to observe St. George’s Day in 
Zagreb, but his father stopped him with a 
look, and changed the talk to the discussion of 
an improved plow that he understood that 


6 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Rade had bought while away. The father had 
little faith in its superiority to the old-fash¬ 
ioned plow that he still used, and the discus¬ 
sion lasted, much to the boy’s disgust, until 
the guest left. 

Milosh soon forgot this, for when getting 
ready for bed he remembered that to-morrow 
night he was to help some of his schoolmates 
in building a big bonfire on the hillside, 
around which they would have a chance to play 
all sorts of pranks. 


CHAPTER II 


A SCHOOL DAY 

Everybody at Milosh’s house usually rose 
with the sun, so that when the tuneless bell 
from the little village church called the chil¬ 
dren to school a few days after St. George’s 
Day, Milosh had not only long been ready, 
but had performed several chores while at the 
same time taking care of dear little rosy- 
cheeked Zorka. 

The schoolhouse differed from the other 
houses of the village mainly in having a bigger 
door than any of them, a wooden cross on the 
roof, and many more windows. These win¬ 
dows could never have been measured, for no 
two of them were the same size. 

The teacher was a very serious looking man 
and quite old. He wore a long coat, and, as 
one of his brighter pupils observed, always 
carried his sign about with him: this was the 
ink spots on his white vest. Whenever he had 
to read or needed to look at anything else 
closely, he put on heavy, ancient-looking 

7 


8 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

glasses, with long wires that went back of his 
ears. Out of doors, in warm weather, he in¬ 
variably carried a big blue umbrella either 
above his head or under his arm. But despite 
his ugly glasses and the two big wrinkles that 
much worrying had plowed deep between his 
eyes, he was a kind man and his pupils were 
fond of him. 

As soon as the children arrived and before 
they settled down to their studies there were 
always prayers, followed by songs, often of a 
religious character, for the teacher was also 
the church soloist and liked the opportunity 
given him of practice in school. 

There were many holidays, like that of St. 
George, but every child up to the age of twelve 
was expected to attend school on ordinary 
days. Very few dreamed of continuing their 
studies after the required time. This week, 
however, the teacher was quite elated and ex¬ 
cited over the announcement that Mitar, the 
son of the richest villager, was to have an extra 
year of schooling in Zagreb. 

Mitar’s schoolmates did not envy him this 
additional schooling, but their imaginations 
were fired by all that he was going to see and 
experience in the beloved capital of their 
country. Mitar, on his part, needed little en- 


9 


A School Day 

couragement to stimulate their wonder still 
more. Every opportunity he had, he enlarged 
on all that by any chance he had heard or 
imagined regarding Zagreb. 

“They eat differently there,” he would say. 
“They don’t have cornmeal every day, but all 
sorts of other things; so many you can’t count 
them, on gold plates, everything on a separate 
plate, and you take a little from one, and a 
little from another, and a little from—” 

Here he was interrupted by a stalwart boy 
whose family had lately moved to the village 
from Herzegovina; although no older he was 
fully a head and a half taller than Mitar, who 
was small for his age and sensitive about it. 
Looking down at him the Herzegovinian re¬ 
marked scornfully: 

“Perhaps you think all those littles will 
make a big man of you, eh?” 

Mitar flushed and clenched his fists, and it 
was a fortunate thing perhaps that the teacher 
came along just then. 

After school Milosh could not resist teasing 
Mitar by calling out: 

“By eating a little and a little and a little, 
you’ll get big, won’t you Mitar?” 

This resulted in Mitar chasing Milosh, and 
he might have overtaken him had not both 


10 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

been attracted by a number of the younger 
children, who were dismissed earlier from 
school, suddenly starting to run and scream 
like wild creatures. 

“What’s the matter?” yelled both boys. 

They got no answer until they caught up 
with a little six year old fellow, who explained 
the youngsters’ excitement by: 

“Big frog—great big frog—in hole; Churo 
says he’ll spit magic at us.” 


CHAPTER III 


A HALF HOLIDAY 

It was a school half-holiday. Milosh had 
been so busy with chores for a part of it that 
he was quite glad when his mother said he need 
do nothing more but take care of his little 
sister. 

Zorka had on an old dress made just like 
one of her mother’s, with short full skirt, and 
a little red bodice laced over a white chemise. 
Worn though it was, it was nevertheless still 
nice and clean, and Milosh liked it because the 
older girls always examined a bit of odd red 
and blue embroidery design on it, which his 
mother had brought with her from her girl¬ 
hood home in Dalmatia, one of the Serbian 
speaking States. Zorka looked so dear, in 
truth, when he appeared with her on the board 
walk in front of the general store, that it was 
no wonder two girls at once ran up to admire 
and pet her. 

“Do let me take care of her,” begged Ziba. 

“No, let me have her,” begged Ivana. 


ii 


12 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“We’ll play house and she’ll be my little girl.” 

Milosh was quite used to this, for Zorka 
was the prettiest child in the village; her 
eyes were so big and round and blue, her cheeks 
so rosy, and her hair so curly and sunny. He 
proudly shook his head, not because he did not 
wish to give up his responsibility, but because 
he did not intend giving it up too cheaply. 
He tossed back his hair and lifted his chest 
until he felt that he must look as important 
as Obren Gulicich, the starosta or chief official 
of the village. 

Now it happened that Mitar was also free, 
and was just coming around a corner. Seeing 
his chance of getting even with Milosh for his 
teasing, he ran up quickly behind him and gave 
him a hard whack between the shoulders with 
his doubled fist. Milosh, taken by surprise, 
forgot his dignified air, and thrusting Zorka 
into Ivana’s arms, turned like a flash and was 
after his assaulting schoolmate. 

It was a full half hour before the two boys 
returned together, frowzded and dirty, but 
chattering like the friends they really were. 
The girls had disappeared, and it took the 
boys some time before they found them seated 
in a clay pit a short distance back of the low 
stone village church. They were playing that 


A Half Holiday 13 

they were making pottery, just as they had 
often seen their mothers make it. 

Much as they would have liked to join in 
the girls’ play, the boys pretended to scorn it. 
They placed themselves at a little distance, 
and taking out their knives, seemed to be 
wholly absorbed in whittling. But after two 
or three minutes of this, they could not help 
shouting jesting remarks at the girls. The 
latter only glanced at them out of the corners 
of their eyes. 

“Ask your mother for the ax, Zorka,” said 
Ziba, “so that I can pound this nice lot of 
clay.” 

Zorka toddled up to Ivana, her play-mother, 
who handed her a short stout stick, with the 
caution: 

“Now be careful, Zorka, not to cut yourself 
on the way.” 

Zorka, all smiles, toddled back to Ziba, 
who, kneeling down, began to pound vigorously 
at the clay. 

“I must have some goats’ hair to mix with 
it next,” she called as she bent with flushed 
face over her work. 

Before Ivana could decide what substitute 
to use for goats’ hair, Milosh sprang up, and 
nudging Mitar, shouted: 


14 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“Wait and we’ll get some real goat’s hair!” 

The girls, who had been pretending to be 
quite unaware of the boys’ presence, now showed 
their interest as they watched the two run 
madly, not, as they expected, to some goats 
pasturing nearby, but to a neighbor’s goat pen. 
They soon returned, each holding a handful 
of the real thing. 

“Thank you,” said both girls with shy 
warmth, and then turned back to their play. 

Spreading the hair on a stone, Ivana began 
to chop at it, but evidently without satisfaction 
to herself, for she sighed as she handed it to 
Ziba with the remark: 

“You can mix it with the clay now. I can’t 
chop it any finer.” 

“Gosh, do you call that chopped!” Milosh 
burst out. “Come Mitar, let’s show them how 
to do it.” 

Then how the boys did slash with their 
knives until some of the hair was really cut, 
while the rest went flying away on all sides! 
They were repaid by Ziba’s and Ivana’s admir¬ 
ing appreciation. The latter gathered up 
what she could, and Ziba began to mix it 
adroitly with the clay. 

In the meantime, Ivana, with Zorka’s help, 
was picking up all the stray sticks of wood they 


A Half Holiday 15 

could find, and piling them in a little heap. 
On top of them she placed an old empty tin 
can that some one had thrown away. 

“Don’t go too near the fire,” Zorka was 
warned. 

This time the little girl did not understand 
quickly. 

“Where fire?” she asked. 

“Why, you stupid little pigeon,” returned 
Ivana, giving her a hug, “isn’t it always under 
the pot when you’re boiling water?” 

When a little later she carried this can over 
to her playmate, the boys laughed and laughed 
at her, but Ziba nevertheless said with a 
serious face: 

“Don’t spill any of the hot water on me.” 

“I’ll be careful,” returned Ivana, as she be¬ 
gan pouring nothing at all from the can. 

Nothing seemed to be all right, for Ziba 
began to work some more of the clay, and then 
shape it with her hands. 

While she did this, the play-mother built 
a little oven of stones which her little 
“daughter” brought to her, and into this 
Ziba’s bits of clay, which the girls called “pots” 
and “cups” and “dishes,” were placed to bake. 

The boys had been whispering, but whatever 
they were planning became impossible to do, 


16 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

for all the children were now called home. 

When the girls visited the place next day on 
their way home from school, some goats were 
pasturing nearby and the oven was completely 
destroyed. 

“Dear me; whatever will we cook our food 
in!” said Ziba, still full of the previous day’s 
make-believe. 


CHAPTER IV 


A DAY AT THE FAIR 

There had been nothing talked about for 
a whole week by the school boys and the school 
girls, nor by anybody else in the village for 
that matter, except the big yearly Fair to be 
held in a neighboring town of some size. 
Those whose families were planning to go— 
and there were many of these—were envied 
by those less fortunate. 

Milosh was so excited over the fact that 
his father had promised to take him, that he 
could hardly sleep the night before. He even 
woke once around midnight to call out: 
“Papa, isn’t it time? We mustn’t be late!” 

Although they had not planned to start until 
six, he was up at four, and made so much noise 
that the whole family soon followed his ex¬ 
ample of extra early rising. Breakfast was 
prepared, and by six o’clock Milosh was 
triumphantly riding in a creaking cart drawn 
by two brown, wiry little horses. 

Part of the distance to the Fair was by the 

17 


18 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

river road. There was already a steady 
stream of vehicles on it, and also many men, 
women and children on foot, all in their bright¬ 
est of holiday clothes. 

Near the first house on the outskirts of the 
town, they passed two aged Gypsy musicians, 
and a group of three beggars, two of whom 
were lame, and one blind. There was some¬ 
thing in the faces of these persons that made 
it apparent that for them, also, the Fair held 
out pleasant prospects. 

The horses, who had covered the road at a 
rapid trot, were halted in the courtyard of a 
gost'.na, or inn, where there was already an as¬ 
semblage of vehicles of all kinds. The chat¬ 
tering and noise was most exciting to Milosh, 
and he kept constantly glancing around as he 
helped his father unharness the team. .This 
duty done, he joined a bare-footed servant, 
dressed in white, who was carrying fodder 
around not only to the horses, but also to the 
big-horned oxen lying on the ground. Num¬ 
erous ducks, geese, chickens and pigeons still 
more enlivened the scene by now claiming their 
right to a share in this food, and now gather¬ 
ing noisily around a pump at one end of the 
enclosure. 

When the servant again went indoors, and 


A Day at the Fair 19 

while Milosh’s father talked to the landlord, 
the boy strolled to the front of the inn where 
he found two other boys, somewhat older than 
himself, admiring the rough frescoes on the 
walls. These frescoes represented scenes in 
the life of the wonderful Marko Kralyevich, 
the great national hero of all the Serbian-speak¬ 
ing people. One of them showed the stalwart 
Marko mounted on his splendid piebald 
charger Sharatz, in the act of hurling his 
hundred pound mace high into the clouds. 
Another illustrated the famous meeting with 
the Vila (fairy) Raviyola, who jealous of the 
singing of Marko’s loyal friend Milosh, kills 
the latter, but when pursued and caught by the 
hero Marko, restores him to life. 

“Do you remember,” asked one of the trio, 
“that story in which it says that on his tent 
was an apple of gold, in which were two large 
diamonds which shed a light so far that 
even the neighboring tents needed no can¬ 
dles?” 

The boys nodded, serious faced. 

“And do you remember,” the other boy put 
in, “what Marko made the Magyar General 
Voutchka pay him and his friend Milosh as a 
ransom ?” 

“Indeed I do,” quickly responded the first 


20 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

boy. “It was three tovars 1 of gold for each 
of them, and the gilded coach drawn by twelve 
Arabian horses which the General used when 
visiting the Austrian empress, and oh, so many 
other things!” 

Milosh, like all his race, knew and loved 
this legendary history; but interesting as the 
pictures were, he was too impatient to get to 
the Fair itself not to be ready when his father 
called to him. 

The grounds were only a short distance 
away. What a colorful place it was! What 
a variety of costumes was to be seen! Many 
of the women had on what looked like two 
overlapping aprons to form a skirt, a loose 
white linen bodice with wide sleeves, and a 
third small apron much embroidered. They 
seemed fond of scarfs, for they wore a wide 
red one around the waist and a narrower one, 
tied in a bow in front, across the chest. Some 
had white stockings and bright red or yellow 
sandals. And all had jewelry of some kind: 
coral or bead necklaces, silver bracelets or ear¬ 
rings, and even gold ones. Mingling with 
them, and in strange contrast to them, were 
veiled Mohammedan women, who looked, as 
some one said, just like black beetles. 

1 Tovar ... as much as a horse could carry on its back. 



WHAT A COLORFUL PLACE IT WAS ! WHAT A VARIETY 
OF COSTUMES WAS TO BE SEEN ! ’ ’ 
















21 


A Day at the Fair 

Most of the men wore long white coats 
reaching almost to the knees, with the upper 
part open so as to show scarlet vests decorated 
with silver buttons and fastened around the 
waists with broad, ornamented, silver belts. 
Their loose trousers were of thin, light 
material, and they wore either high-topped 
boots, or sandals called opankas. Somehow 
these bright costumes made every one look 
gay and happy. 

There were so many, many things for sale! 
One could buy decorated dishes, sheep skins, 
pigs, home-cured olives, linen, embroideries, 
carpets, wine, opankas, beads, caps. ... It 
would take too long to name them all! There 
were not only Serbian-speaking people in 
charge of the booths, but also Turks with mel¬ 
ancholy expressions who sat before their stalls 
of oriental goods with legs crossed. 

Among the most interesting booths were 
those of the goldsmiths and silversmiths who 
made filigree jewelry, some of it so fine as to 
be worth much money. Milosh wanted to buy 
a very pretty pin for his mother, but, as he 
explained to her later: “The crazy fellow 
wanted more for it than what we could get 
for one of our best pigs!” 

Of course one of the big pleasures of the 


22 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

day, for the children especially, was eating 
away from home. Milosh’s father under¬ 
stood, for he soon stopped before a man with a 
charcoal stove and bought some cabbage soup 
for himself and son. A little later he stopped 
again and this time they had some stew, which 
a man peddled about in a drum-shaped box 
fastened with straps around his neck and rest¬ 
ing on his stomach. 

Before their lunch time came, Milosh had 
gone to one of the shows, where he saw a poor 
little calf with six legs, and some trained white 
mice who astonished and delighted him with 
their tricks. 

He had still a little money to spend, and 
some of it went for a whistle and some brightly 
colored candy; then he remembered Zorka and 
that he must bring her something very special. 

His father had left him to wander about by 
himself, so he could not ask him for his advice, 
and for a while he was much puzzled. He 
was reluctantly making up his mind that there 
was nothing his money could buy but another 
stick of candy, when his face lightened. He 
had caught sight of a tray with rings of all 
kinds, and he felt sure that one would look 
well on one of Zorka’s little fingers. 

There were quite a few children about this 


A Day at the Fair 23 

tray. They were eagerly trying on rings that 
pleased them. Milosh took fully five minutes 
before he chose a tiny circlet, with a big red 
stone that made him think of Zorka’s cheeks. 
It cost all the remaining two pennies of his 
money! 

The way home seemed much longer than 
had the way to the Fair in the fresh morning 
breeze. There were only two things that 
kept Milosh awake. One was his curiosity 
as to what was in some of the packages his 
father was taking home; and the other his 
anxiety,—a big anxiety lest he should lose the 
ring for Zorka and a lesser anxiety in regard 
to the stick of candy, which he hadn’t eaten, 
but intended to present to his mother. 


CHAPTER V 


SUMMER DUTIES AND PLEASURES 

As soon as school vacation came, one of 
Milosh’s duties was to take ten pigs that the 
family owned, to pasture in the woods on the 
mountain sides. This meant an easy life, to 
which he, like all the other boys, long looked 
forward. A large part of the time one could 
lie on one’s back in some shaded place, and 
watch the tiny clouds in the sky or the big birds 
that sometimes circled in the air. 

There were more flocks of sheep than of 
pigs in these mountains, and there were also 
herds of cattle, the bells of the last always 
awakening the sheep in the morning. This 
was not the only music, for most of the herders 
played on rude flutes they themselves made, or 
sang their beloved folk songs. 

There was not a tree on the hills that Milosh 
did not know and that he did not climb. He 
made friends with the squirrels and followed 
them to their holes. He grew fond of the 
pigs, too, particularly of a little one, and he 

24 


Summer Duties and Pleasures 25 

had names for all of them. Sometimes he 
did not go home, but slept at night with other 
herd boys in a rude hut, where the provisions 
were kept out of reach of stray wild creatures. 

The pigs were brown, with bristly hair 
down their arched backs, enormous snouts, big 
ears, and very curly tails. Milosh carried a 
long stick with which he tapped them when 
they lingered too long or were inclined to stray. 
When the pigs hurried forward where they 
expected a feast they kept even so active a boy 
on the jump. The little pig was especially 
quick, and several times rushed forward so 
recklessly that it slid on the mossy ground and 
sat right down on its funny curled tail. When¬ 
ever it did so, its little pink eyes would look 
oddly at Milosh, who always came running up, 
and it would give a squeak. 

“Tut, tut,” Milosh would say, giving it a 
gentle poke, “can’t you watch where you’re 
going?” 

When a particularly good pasture was found, 
the pigs were left to root and munch acorns, 
which they interlarded with grunts of satis¬ 
faction. Then Milosh would lie down under 
the trees and think of songs that he might sing 
and dream of many other things. 

One day he saw a snake glide into a hole, 


26 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

and he marked the spot with stones, for, like 
all of his schoolmates, he believed that snakes 
guard treasures. 

Zorka missed her brother greatly during 
this time of the year. One day she found her¬ 
self particularly lonesome. Her mother had 
taken her and her dolly to the field where she 
was working, and had left the little one to play 
by herself. But Zorka was not very happy 
until another girlie named Draga, who lived 
near by, came over to make friends with her. 

Draga showed her what fun it was to hop 
on one foot while holding the other in the hand. 
Together they hunted for “fairy rings,” and 
then for snails, repeating some funny rhymes 
about these little creatures as they did so. But 
Zorka was made happiest when they found a 
narrow linen bag, which her new friend said 
would make a dress for her doll. Alas, it 
would not go on, although both tried to push 
dolly into it. 

“She’s too fat,” said Draga. “My uncle 
went to a hospital and got awfully thin. Let’s 
play she goes to a hospital and has an o-per-a- 
tion.” 

Zorka laughed with delight, while Draga 
hunted for a sharp stone. “It is to let the 


Summer Duties and Pleasures 27 

doll bleed,” she said. And she actually suc¬ 
ceeded in making a hole in the side of the doll’s 
cloth body, so that half the sawdust came out. 

“This is blood,” the little girl explained; 
“and the dolly may die, and then we’ll have to 
have a funeral.” 

Zorka burst out crying at this, and Draga to 
comfort her decided the doll wouldn’t die, and 
was much nicer because she would now be able 
to wear the new dress. And sure enough, the 
doll was so thin that it was quite easy to slip 
her body into the bag. 

Zorka’s mother, however, did not seem to 
agree with the little girl about the dolly, for 
when she came up she scolded her, so that 
Draga in her turn cried. The mother could 
not have this, so tired though she was, she sat 
down, and putting her arms around both 
children, told them a strange folk story. 


CHAPTER VI 


A FOLK NONSENSE STORY 

Once a poor man sent his son to a nearby 
mill to have some corn ground. 

“But if you find that the miller is beardless,” 
he cautioned, “beware of him, for he’s crafty, 
too. Take the corn, in that case, to another 
mill.” 

The boy promised to observe this and set 
out. When he reached the mill he was disap¬ 
pointed to find that the miller had not a hair 
on his face. 

“What do you want?” asked the latter. 

“I was going to grind some corn,” returned 
the boy; “but I guess I won’t.” And he made 
his way to the next mill. 

Now the miller resolved to outwit him. 
Taking a short cut he was there before him. 
The boy was surprised to find another beard¬ 
less miller, and again left. But the miller 
again took a short cut to the third mill and 
reached it first, and when the boy left, hurried 
on to the fourth. 


28 


A Folk Nonsense Story 29 

On seeing him the fourth time, the boy made 
up his mind that all millers must be beardless, 
and believing it was useless to seek further, 
asked the miller’s permission to grind his corn. 

This was granted. When he had finished 
doing so, the miller placed himself before him 
and said: 

“That’s a nice lot of corn, but it’ll be easier 
to carry if we change it into a loaf of bread.” 

The boy did not know how to refuse, for the 
miller had already taken it up and was mixing 
it with water. Then they fired the oven and 
baked the bread. 

When it was nicely browned the miller took 
it from the oven and placed it against the wall. 

“If we divide this,” he argued, “there won’t 
be enough for either of us. Let’s tell stories, 
and give the loaf to the one who can think of 
the biggest whoppers.” 

The boy again did not know how to refuse 
this suggestion, so he yielded and they sat 
down opposite the loaf. 

The miller began his story first. When he 
had finished he told another and another until 
he was tired. The boy listened, but all the 
time he was thinking hard, for he wanted to 
win. 

When the miller stopped, the boy remarked: 


30 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“Do you call those whoppers ? Why there’s 
nothing to them! Just wait until you hear my 
story!” 

The Boy’s Story 

“In my younger days when I was an old 
man, we had many hives full of bees. I 
counted the bees every morning, but, try hard 
as I would, I never could count the hives. One 
morning I missed our best bee. So I went 
into the barnyard and mounting our rooster 
set off in search of it. I learned it had gone 
to the sea, which it had crossed. So I made 
my way there and crossed also. On the other 
side I found a peasant plowing his field with the 
bee, and sowing grain. 

“ ‘That is my bee,’ I said. 

“ ‘Then you can have it,’ returned the 
peasant. ‘And here is a sackful of grain to 
pay for all it has done for me.’ 

“I put the sack on my back, took the saddle 
from the rooster, put it on the bee, and 
mounted, leading the rooster by a string be¬ 
hind. One of the fastenings of the sack broke 
as we flew, and all the grain fell into the water 
before I could help it. 

“It was night when we reached the other 
side. Before I lay down to sleep I let the bee 


A Folk Nonsense Story 31 

loose to graze, but tied the rooster near me, 
after giving him some hay to eat. 

“The next morning I was shocked to find 
that wolves had attacked and eaten my bee, 
and that honey was spread knee deep through¬ 
out the valley and ankle deep on the hillsides. 
I wanted to gather it up, but had no vessel. 
So I took my little ax and went into the woods 
to find some animal from which to make a skin. 
Here I saw two deer dancing on one leg. I 
threw my ax against this leg and broke it, so 
that both deer fell. 

“Out of the two deer I drew three skins, 
which I made into bags into which I gathered 
all the honey. I hoisted these on the rooster 
and we set out for home. 

“When we reached it, I found that my father 
had just been born. As some holy water was 
wanted for the christening, I was sent to 
heaven to fetch it. 

“I did not know how to get there until I 
remembered the grain which I had spilled. I 
hurried to the sea and saw from a distance that 
the grain had sprouted. It reached quite to 
heaven. 

“I climbed up one stalk. Before I reached 
the top, I found the grain had ripened and that 
an angel had harvested it and made a loaf of 


32 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

bread from it. He was just eating this, with 
a little warm milk, when I came up to him. 
I begged him for some holy water, which he 
kindly gave me. 

“On my way back, I found that a big rain 
had caused the sea to rise so high that it had 
washed away all the plants. I was frightened 
until I remembered that my hair is so long that 
when I stand it reaches to the ground, and 
when I sit it reaches to my ears. I cut off one 
hair after another and tying them together, 
descended on them. 

“But night came before I reached the 
bottom. Not willing to hang there, I made 
a bigger knot in the hair and rested on it until 
morning. It was cold and I needed a fire. 
I did not know what to burn until I happened 
to think that I had a sewing needle in my 
pocket. I took this out, split it into several 
pieces, and made a big fire. Feeling now quite 
comfortable, I fell asleep. 

“Unfortunately as I slept a flame leaped up 
and burnt through my hair, so that I fell down 
with such force that I sank into the earth up 
to my waist. I was wedged in so tightly I 
couldn’t get out until I hastened home and re¬ 
turned with a spade. With this I dug myself 
to the surface. 


A Folk Nonsense Story 33 

“I then took the holy water and proceeded 
on my way. When I reached our fields, I saw 
many reapers working in the hot sun. Pitying 
them, I cried: 

“ ‘Why do you not get our mare who is two 
day’s journey long and half a day’s journey 
broad, and on whose back big willow trees are 
growing?’ 

“My father had not thought of her. He 
ran at once, brought her back, and the men then 
worked in the shade. 

“I took a jug to fetch some water for them, 
that they might work still better, for the per¬ 
spiration was pouring down their cheeks. I 
found the well frozen. Having nothing else 
handy, I took off my head to break the ice 
with it. Then I carried the water to the 
men. 

“When they saw me they cried: 

“ ‘Where your head?’ 

“I put my hands on my shoulders and found 
that I had forgotten my head by the well. 

“I hurried back, and there I saw a fox eating 
it. Very angry, I kicked the animal so hard 
that it dropped a little book. I picked this up 
and opening it, read these words: 

“ ‘The whole loaf is for you. The beardless 
miller has lost the wager.’ ” 


34 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

The boy here snatched up the loaf of bread, 
and without even saying good-by, ran off, while 
the miller sat with his mouth wide open, too 
astonished to move. 


CHAPTER VII 


IN DALMATIA 

The favorite sister of Milosh’s mother 
Militza, whose home was in the neighboring 
sister state of Dalmatia, was to be married, 
and all of Milosh’s family planned to go to the 
wedding. First, however, the home had to be 
put in order, and then the washing done. 

Milosh helped his mother in the latter by 
carrying some of the clothes for her to a stream 
that made its way through the village. Then 
he hurried back to take care of little Zorka. 

Several neighbors also came to do their 
washing. There was so much chatting that it 
seemed more like a gathering for play than 
for work. But the latter was nevertheless very 
carefully done, for the women prided them¬ 
selves on the snowiness of their linen. 

First each woman chose a big stone in the 
stream for her own. On this she placed piece 
after piece of her strong home-'woven gar¬ 
ments, and with another stone pounded at them 
until the dirt was all loosened. Then she 

35 


36 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

rinsed the clothes several times in the running 
water, and, finally, spread them in the green 
grass to bleach and dry. 

In the meantime Milosh was trying his best 
to make Zorka properly appreciate the great 
treat in store for them. “We’re going, oh, 
so very far!” he said again and again. 

“We going,” repeated Zorka, clapping her 
little hands and gazing wonderingly up at her 
big brother. 

It was a beautiful day early in June when they 
started. Many relatives and neighbors had 
come over to wish them luck. Some of them 
had never themselves been more than a dozen 
miles from home. 

“S bogom” (God be with you), and “Do 
vidjenja” (until we meet again), they shouted 
after them. 

The way was through forests and valleys 
rich in snowdrops, violets, and other flowers, 
until they crossed the boundary into Dalmatia, 
the narrow state bordering the Adriatic Sea. 

Here for a long way the country was a mass 
of hills, many of them a gray lava, which at 
times glistened in the sunlight like silver. 

“Why, mother,” said Milosh, disappointed; 
“there’s nothing here but sagebrush and rocks, 
and rocks and sagebrush.” 



“ THE CITY, UNDER THE BARE LIMESTONE MASS OF 
MT. SERGIO, LAY BEFORE THEM.” 






















In Dalmatia 


37 

“Wait!” said his mother, smiling. “You’ll 
soon see something different.” 

And sure enough, before many hours they 
were in the midst of more green vegetation and 
more bright flowers than the boy had even seen 
before. Instead of gray lava, the hillsides 
were now covered with vines and trees and 
shrubs. There were locusts, flowering aloes, 
giant plane trees, oleanders with pink and 
white blossoms, magnolias. 

It was already the second morning of their 
journey when they reached this section, and 
they still had a long way to go to the home of 
Uncle Josip Glubitich, for he lived in the 
ancient city of Ragusa, or rather Dubrovnik, 
as the Serbian-speaking people call it. 

But at sunset, the city, under the bare lime¬ 
stone mass of Mt. Sergio, lay before them. Its 
towers and mediaeval walls,.jutting out into the 
Adriatic Sea, were bathed in the rosy bright¬ 
ness of a magnificent sky. 

Milosh uttered an exclamation of delight. 
This view exceeded even his expectations of 
the beauty of the place fostered by his mother, 
who missing its charm in her newer Croatian 
home, often talked to him of it as a city of 
romance and enchanting history. 

How happy the mother, or majka, as the 


38 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

children called her, looked! She was so full 
of smiles and gay remarks that Milosh could 
not help taking hold of her hand and patting it, 
while Zorka cuddled up close to her. 

“Dubrovnik never was conquered,” she told 
the children. “But that is not the finest thing 
in its history. The finest thing is the fact 
that at one time it offered a sanctuary to re¬ 
fugees of all nations, even to those who had 
been its worst enemies.” And oh, how 
proudly she looked when she said this! 

“Our teacher once called it the ‘Slavonic 
Athens.’ Why was that?” Milosh ques¬ 
tioned. 

The mother thought a moment. “I think it 
must be,” she said, “because there was a great 
and early development here of Jugoslav art 
and literature.” 

They were entering one of the gates of the 
city, with frowning bastions and a mediaeval 
watch tower. Many people were going 
through on foot at the time. Some of the men 
had on red caps, others wore fezzes; some had 
vests embroidered in gold, short red jackets 
and full blue trousers. A young woman, carry¬ 
ing a basket, had a short, full, finely pleated 
skirt edged with intricate embroidery, a bright 
kerchief tied behind on her head, thick white 



ONE OF THE GATES . . . WITH FROWNING BASTIONS AND A MEDI/EVAL WATCH- 


















In Dalmatia 


39 

stockings, and low shoes, evidently home-made. 

It would be impossible to describe all the 
varied costumes they saw, for people, came to 
Dubrovnik not only from all the neighboring 
villages, but also from other Serbian-speaking 
States. There were very tall and stalwart 
Herzegovinians on the street, noble looking 
men from Montenegro, a more delicate type 
from Slavonia, and Mohammedan Slavs from 
Bosnia. It came to be one of Milosh’s pas¬ 
times during his stay in the beautiful city, to 
try to distinguish these different peoples, all 
of whom spoke his own language. 

They passed along the wide handsome main 
street, where the shops are very fine, with their 
filigree gold and silver ornaments, their ori¬ 
ental ware, gay carpets and embroideries, and 
other things. 

Parallel to the main street is the Prijeki, a 
long and very narrow street with tall houses 
on each side. It was in one of these, one with 
on overhanging balcony, that majka’s brother 
lived. 

“Welcome, welcome, dear ones!” called out 
Josip Glubitich, as soon as they arrived. 
“We’ve been looking for you.” And he spread 
out his arms to embrace as many as possible. 

Soon every one felt at home, while majka 


40 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

went right into the kitchen to help in the pre¬ 
paration of supper. 

What a fine supper it was! There was 
kisela chorba, a chicken soup with lemon juice; 
guivetch t which is stewed lamb with potatoes, 
rice, tomatoes, and onions; a delicious bread 
shortened with pure olive oil; home-made plum 
jam; and coffee with whipped cream. 

The wedding was a splendid affair; and when 
it was over, Milosh’s uncle would not let them 
depart without seeing some of the most noted 
sights of the old picturesque city. 

First there were the two fine convents dating 
back to the fourteenth century, each at one of 
the two gates leading into Dubrovnik,—and a 
much older church which was considered very 
old even in the 13 th century. 

“Whenever people were sick, they came to 
the monks to be cured,” a Brother in one of 
the convents told them; “and these,” pointing 
out some precious vases, “held the herbs and 
simples on which the monks largely relied. 
Museums have offered us big sums for them, 
but we won’t give them up, for they remind 
us of some of the good things done here in 
times long gone by.” 

This was rather interesting to the children, 
but not nearly so much so as the cloisters, for 


In Dalmatia 


41 

there each pillar had a capital carved to repre¬ 
sent a very strange beast. Zorka thought 
them funny, but her brother would have liked 
to linger to puzzle out what,each could be. 

The Rector’s palace, “a poem in stone” some 
one has called it, was next visited, and then a 
lovely fountain where Milosh and Zorka en¬ 
joyed feeding the pigeons, and watching Ragu- 
san women fill their drinking vessels. 

The next day they went on an excursion to 
the old domain of Count Gozze, at Cannosa, 
for Uncle Josip wanted them to see some giant 
plane trees whose age no one seemed to know. 

“They make me feel as if I were only two 
feet tall!” exclaimed Milosh, as they were 
having refreshments under the largest tree, 
whose trunk, where it comes up from the 
ground, measures twenty-five paces around, 
and whose big branches spread out in all direc¬ 
tions. 

There were other beautiful trees on the 
estate, of which the orange and magnolia were 
in bloom, and there were hedges of flowering 
cactus, about which bees and butterflies hovered, 
while below the height on which the villa 
stands, could be heard the ceaseless murmuring 
of the sea. 

Watching a fishing craft in the distance, 


42 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Milosh remarked: “My, I wish I was out in 
a boat like that, seeing what I could catch!” 

He did not know how promptly his wish 
was to be granted. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ADRIATIC 

Among the frequent guests at the home of 
Josip Glubitich, was Andrija Yankovich, the 
wealthy retired owner of a number of fishing 
vessels. He wanted to help entertain his 
friend’s relatives, and, guessing Milosh’s de¬ 
sire, invited the boy to take a trip on the Adri¬ 
atic Sea with him. 

“The Italians think they own this sea,” he 
remarked, “but we’ve got some rights there 
too.” 

“It’s a great honor,” his mother told Milosh, 
as she gave her consent. “You must try to 
learn all you can, so that the Captain will be 
pleased with you.” 

Early next morning they started, going first 
to the south, where the deepest water is found. 
The clear blue-green sea was very calm. It 
moved only enough for its waves to dash 
lightly against the shore. 

As they sailed around, Captain Yankovich 
related stories of the terrible northeast wind, 


43 


44 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

called the bora, and of sudden squalls that 
occur in winter and make navigation very 
dangerous. 

“It was here,” he said in his deep full voice, 
that made Milosh think of the ocean, “that an 
English king, called Richard of the Lion Heart, 
was once shipwrecked. He had come 
victorious from the Holy Land, but although 
he had conquered the Moslems he could not 
conquer the wind and storm. He was saved, 
but many of his soldiers and crew were 
drowned.” 

As the Captain enlarged thus on the dangers 
of the bora, they turned and made their way 
among the many long, narrow islands, to the 
Bocche di Cattaro (Kotor), where high moun¬ 
tains descend directly into the water. The 
waves beat so furiously at the entrance to this 
winding, magnificent inlet, that Milosh could 
not help remarking: 

“They don’t want us to enter, do they?” 

But they did enter, passing through five gulfs 
joined by narrower channels, with interesting 
towns on the shores. At one of these, a group 
of peasants who had come down from the 
mountains with their loaded donkeys waved 
at them. They looked very odd; for some of 
the men were twice as big as the animals on 


The Adriatic 


45 

which they were seated, and their feet almost 
dragged on the ground. It was no wonder 
that one donkey after another opened his mouth 
to complain. 

They soon left this scene far behind, and 
finally their boat came into one of the finest 
natural harbors in all Europe. 

“Now here I’m going to let you do some¬ 
thing you’ll love,” said the Captain. “I’m 
going to let you go on a real fishing trip.” 

Milosh jumped into the air and gave a shout. 
“Oh, how good you are!” he exclaimed. “But 
what’ll mother say if we don’t get back to¬ 
night?” 

“That’ll be all right,” returned his kindly 
guide. “I whispered the possibility into your 
father’s ear as we left, and he’ll explain.” 

So they wandered among the wharves until 
late afternoon, when a boat owned by the Cap¬ 
tain, with excited Milosh aboard, set out,—for 
the fishing had to be done at night. 

The fishermen proved pleasant companions. 
They told Milosh much regarding the sardine. 
It would soon be time for them to spawn, they 
said, when they would migrate toward the land, 
but stop some distance from shore. The men 
sang and joked, too, until they came to their 
’fishing station, where they anchored, and all 


46 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

became quiet. A lamp was now fixed to the 
side of the boat. 

“The light will bring sardines to the sur¬ 
face,” one of the fishermen told the boy, “and 
then we can get them.” 

And oh, how many they had to show when 
they returned! 

“You brought us good luck,” grinned one of 
the men, as Milosh pointed out the glistening 
fish to the Captain, who seemed to have known 
just when they would return, and was waiting 
for them. “Come with us again.” 

“I know lots about the sardine,” Milosh 
confided to Captain Yankovich, anxious that 
he should see that he had profited by the treat. 
“They haven’t any teeth, and they’re about 
seven and a half inches long when they’re full 
grown, at least that’s the size of those near 
here, and their eggs are buoyant, and there are, 
oh, so many other kinds of fish in the Adriatic 
Sea!” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 

Milosh’s father, mother and sister left for 
home on the day when he returned from his 
fishing trip, but great things were happening 
for the boy himself. It was all because of an 
idea that came into the head of Bogdan Sis- 
sivich, a relative from Montenegro. 

“When one has a chance to see distant 
lands,” Bogdan said to Milosh’s father, while 
the boy was away, “he ought to take advan¬ 
tage of it. Now this is Milosh’s first trip 
from home, and it is also the first trip of 
Churo, my brother. Now I love Churo and 
would like him to know something about the 
world. He is older and stronger than your 
son. Let him take Milosh’s place in your 
home for a while, and let Milosh take his place 
in our home, and they’ll both be wiser and 
better for it.” 

Milosh’s mother at first shook her head; 
but when the father, who was ambitious for 
his son, after thinking it over decided that it 

47 


48 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

would be selfish for them not to accept this 
offer, she, too, gave her consent. 

“I know Bogdan’s people,” the father said 
to her. “They’re fine, honest folks, and Mi- 
losh will learn only what is good while with 
them.” So when Milosh returned, the new 
and bigger surprise greeted him. 

Both he and his mother cried when they 
parted, and so did little Zorka, but on the 
whole he was glad to go with Bogdan Sissi- 
vich, whom he admired greatly. 

Bogdan was six feet, six inches tall, and 
strong in proportion. He had regular fea¬ 
tures, a curly brown mustache, and thick, dark 
brown hair. His bearing and manfters were 
those of a prince. 

He wore the Montenegrin costume: full 
trousers of dark blue cloth reaching only to 
the knees, close fitting leggings, and pointed 
opankas. Under his white homespun coat 
was a crimson waistcoat, heavily embroidered 
in black and gold, while around his waist was 
a scarf twisted so as to hold his weapons, 
though he did not wear them in Dalmatia. In 
winter he wore over all either a long scarf or 
a graceful cape. 

They left next morning, after thanking the 
Glubitiches warmly for their kind hospitality. 



A SECTION OF THE ROAD ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS 










Land of the Black Mountain 49 

Their way lay on a zigzag ascending road cut 
out of the mountain rock. 

This road is a marvelous piece of engineer¬ 
ing. When it was started people doubted if 
it could ever be finished. Even to cut a foot¬ 
path in the rock was them considered impos¬ 
sible. It took years of blasting to make, and 
many persons engaged in the work lost their 
lives. But through it Montenegro was con¬ 
nected with the outside world, which many of 
her people, at the time, thought a doubtful 
blessing. 

This road leads to Mt. Lovchen, where, 
Bogdan told Milosh, the renowned ruler of 
Montenegro, Peter II, poet and last of the 
Bishop-Princes of his country, lies buried. He 
himself chose this last abiding place, for he 
said he would wish his spirit to be where it 
could always see his beloved native land. 

“Why is your country called Crnagora (the 
Black Mountain) ?” asked Milosh. 

“Because it often looks black,” was Bog¬ 
dan’s reply; “especially in summer, when the 
clouds hovering above the mountains cast their 
great shadows.” 

Up up, the two travelers ascended, until 
they reached a plateau where they stopped to 
rest. Here the view of the wild mountain 


50 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

ranges, one behind another, was magnificent; 
while, in the distance, the Lake of Scutari 
could be seen. 

As they proceeded on their way, Bogdan 
told Milosh much about Montenegro and its 
people: how the latter are said to be descended 
from Serbian nobles who found refuge from 
the Turks in its rocky fastnesses; how these 
had preferred the hard life there to paying 
tribute to those they considered enemies; 
and how the Montenegrins, alone of all 
the Balkan peoples, had never paid this trib¬ 
ute. 

“We were thought unconquerable,” he said, 
sadly, “and, personally knowing no fear, we 
also thought ourselves so, until this terrible 
World War proved that we could not with¬ 
stand the diabolic modern inventions of man, 
which do not give personal bravery a proper 
chance. Besides—” and here his look dark¬ 
ened and he became silent. 

When he again spoke he had gone back to 
the more distant past. 

“Yes, we were long unconquerable. Even 
Napoleon found that out. He thought he 
could subdue us easily. He railed at us: 
‘You call yourself Black Mountain, do you? 
Well, I’ll change you to a Red Mountain,—red 


Land of the Black Mountain 51 

with the blood of your people.’ But, my 
God!” Bogdan used this favorite Montene¬ 
grin exclamation often. “Did he? No! He 
was glad later to seek us for allies!” 

“Were you in the Balkan Wars?” asked 
Milosh. 

“Yes,” replied Bogdan, “both against 
Turkey and against Bulgaria. My elder bro¬ 
ther was killed in the Battle of Bardagnolt, of 
which some one said that if it had been fought 
by one of the Great Powers it would have been 
blazoned forever on their banners. Some¬ 
thing went wrong with our supplies, and for 
three days most of us had not tasted food. 
When, after the battle, my mother came seek¬ 
ing us, I was so weak that had she not brought 
wine I could not have helped her. We found 
my brother frightfully wounded, but still 
breathing. As my mother held his head 
against her breast, she comforted him: 

“ ‘You are leaving, my son, but go in glad¬ 
ness since Montenegro has won.’ He caught 
the words. A happy look came into his eyes, 
and he repeated for the last time: ‘Monte¬ 
negro !’ ” 

Both were silent for a time, and then Bog¬ 
dan began to talk of other things. He 
touched on some superstitions in which, 


52 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

strangely enough, he himself seemed to have 
a certain faith. 

“Once,” he said, “a stranger killed a black 
snake near our house. We all believe that 
such snakes live under every house, and that, 
if one is killed, the head of the house to which 
it belongs is sure to die. We had hardly the 
heart to tell father, but when we did, he was 
calm, and only said: ‘Nema smrti bez sood- 
yena dana. (There is no death before the 
day appointed).’” 

“Did he die?” Milosh inquired. 

“No,” returned Bogdan. “The snake 
could not have been our snake.” 

“There is one snake that I’d like to see,” 
Bogdan continued, after a pause. “It’s the 
water-dragon that makes its home in the Lake 
of Rikavatz. Nobody will live near this place 
on account of him. He is said to have a fiery 
head, and when he comes out of the water or 
goes back, the thunder roars and lightning 
flashes. Of course,” he added, “our late King 
said it isn’t true. But some say the snake de¬ 
ceived the King by taking on the form of a 
handsome prince. I don’t know.” 

As Bogdan thus talked and Milosh listened, 
they continued onward, seldom resting. They 
met few people, but saw here and there in tiny 


Land of the Black Mountain 53 

valleys, which are sometimes only a few feet 
square, men, and more often women busying 
themselves with crops that they had planted. 

At sunset they reached a tiny settlement, 
where they secured lodging at the home of one 
of Bogdan’s friends, Grgo Milicich. 

“Take good heed of Grgo,” Bogdan ad¬ 
vised his young companion, before entering 
the house; “for, Milosh, you’re going to see 
one of our old type heroes, and you may never 
see such another in all your life. I will ask 
him to tell you some of his experiences,—and 
see that you note all he says.” 


CHAPTER X 


GRGO AND HIS STORY 

Grgo met them at the door. He was a 
man about eighty, almost as tall as Bogdan, 
broad shouldered, too, with a form still 
straight and pliable, but so thin that his open 
shirt revealed every bone in his sinewy neck 
and chest. His wrinkled face had been dyed 
a deep brown by the sun and wind. His eyes, 
black and piercing, were shaded by brows and 
long lashes that had become as grizzled as his 
hair, but his long mustaches, reaching to his 
hairy breast, had remained black. A deep 
scar stood out an angry red over his left eye. 
One arm was wholly missing. 

He was dressed poorly. His feet were 
shod in torn opankas, his dark blue trousers 
were stained, his shirt was of coarse material, 
—but within his broad red belt glittered a 
magnificent revolver and the handle of a long 
handzar, fully half the length of a man; while 
on a golden chain swung a short Turkish 
sword. 


54 


55 


Grgo and His Story 

Bogdan saluted him with: 

“God greet you! I see you’re still wear¬ 
ing your jewels, grandfather Grgo.” 

“They’re my only comfort,” returned the 
old man, clasping Bogdan warmly by the hand, 
and smiling down at Milosh, who, for his part, 
could not take his eyes from him. 

“We have come to beg your honorable hos¬ 
pitality for the night,” said Bogdan. 

“The house is God’s and yours,” replied 
Grgo warmly. “We shall find you something 
to eat, too, and even if it be only a potato 
apiece, it will be blessed by our love and good¬ 
will.” 

“We keep up this old custom here,” he con¬ 
tinued as they entered, pointing out a plate 
of bread with salt beside it on the rude table. 

Bogdan and Milosh seated themselves, and 
all partook of this; for not to have done so 
would not only have been the greatest of dis¬ 
courtesies to their host, but would in his opin¬ 
ion have proclaimed them enemies of the 
household. 

Besides the handmade table and benches, 
there was an open fire in the room, with an old 
funnel arrangement above it to carry off the 
smoke. The floor was of beaten earth. In 
one corner was an ikon, or picture of a saint, 


56 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

before which a small lamp was burning. Op¬ 
posite this was a rudely framed paper on 
which an Englishmen, who had met and ad¬ 
mired Grgo, had printed some of Tennyson’s 
inspiring lines to Montenegro: 

O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne 
Of Freedom! warriors beating back the swarm 
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years; 

Great Tsernogora! never since thine own 
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm, 
Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers. 

Grgo was particularly proud of this, and 
seeing his guests look at it, explained what it 
was about. 

A girl of about fourteen entered and kissed 
the hands of the guests. Grgo spoke of her as 
his grand-daughter, Danica, explaining that 
she alone of all his household was left to him. 

Danica, like many Montenegrin girls, was 
very beautiful. The fair skin of her oval face 
was rosy, her solemn brown eyes glowed like 
black pearls, while her wavy dark hair formed 
a mass of plaits arranged like a coronet on top 
of her head. Everything she had on was 
patched, but very clean. Her feet were bare. 

She began to set the table with what poor 
food they had,—consisting of a bean and 


Grgo and His Story 57 

onion soup, coarse bread, sheep cheese, a little 
honey, and goat milk. Very little was said 
until supper was at an end, when Bogdan 
turned the conversation deftly to Grgo’s own 
experiences. 


grgo’s story 

“I was born near the Albanian border, 
where my father owned a big sheep ranch. 
Everybody in our village had suffered at va¬ 
rious times from the Turk. We all went 
armed. When I was thirteen, my father pre¬ 
sented me with a brace of pistols, and with 
these I felt that I was fully a man. My 
father’s family had been subjected to par¬ 
ticular persecution, for they were very open 
in expressing their contempt for the Moslems, 
our age-long enemies. ‘He who spares the 
guilty, wrongs the innocent,’ was one of our 
favorite mottoes. 

“I was a hot-headed youngster, and thought 
that I would show the rascals the stuff of which 
Montenegrins are made. This thought took 
such possession of me that often, in planning 
what I should do, I lay awake all night. I 
had yet to learn how little can be accomplished 
by one alone, or even by groups of individuals. 

“I was but a few years older when two com- 


58 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

rades and myself made a solemn vow that we 
would become heyduks, who as you know, are 
men who give up their lives to guerilla warfare 
on the Turks. To this end we adopted one 
another, according to our custom, as brothers, 
or pobratim, going before our priest and kneel¬ 
ing at the altar for this sacred ceremony. 
This new relationship, of course, meant 
that we would be true unto death to one 
another. 

“The very next day, attracting what com¬ 
panions we could, we took to the woods. By 
the end of the month there were sixteen of us 
under the leadership of Joso Tomasevich, my 
older pobratim . We made sallies on our 
enemies whenever they were about, and al¬ 
though there were so few of us, we were so 
daring and so determined to avenge our 
wrongs, that we came to be really feared. 

“After we had led this life for eight or 
nine months, Tomasevich was killed, and I 
was chosen leader in his stead. It would take 
too long to tell you my life. Four of us once 
seized a cannon directed against a village, and 
pulled it up into the steep mountains, while the 
Turkish soldiers fired at us. They were 
afraid to follow, for they had learned, to their 
cost, that a few brave men can hold a moun- 


1 


Grgo and His Story 59 

tain pass against many hundreds. But that 
little expedition’s only one thing. 

“Hard as the life was, I had my reward, for 
I was welcome among Serbian speaking people 
wherever found. Sometimes, hidden, I heard 
the countryfolk sing songs celebrating me and 
my deeds and those of the brave fellows with 
me; often, while in disguise, I would find the 
boys in the villages playing they were Grgo and 
his heyduk band: and so I knew that every¬ 
where people were grateful to us for what we 
were trying to do. 

“Later I took part in the Balkan Wars and 
still later in the World War, where, alas, 
Montenegro lost her independence, and is now 
only a part of Greater Serbia. Perhaps this 
union of one race was necessary and bound to 
come, but for me, who believed that Monte¬ 
negrin ideals could only be preserved by her 
remaining by herself, it is hard.” 

With unshed tears in his eyes, the old man 
gazed into the fire. 


CHAPTER XI 

A SERBIAN’S PART IN THE WORLD WAR 

The next morning Bogdan and Milosh 
were again on their way. They had not pro¬ 
ceeded far when they were overtaken by a 
Serbian from Belgrade. He was darker than 
Milosh and his companion, and with the look 
of one who had suffered greatly in his large, 
expressive, brown eyes. 

“Since the close of the War in which we 
were so shamelessly attacked, I have been 
wandering about in Croatia, Dalmatia, Slav¬ 
onia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, and in my own Ser¬ 
bia, as well as here in Montenegro,—that is, 
in every part of our Jugoslavia,” he ex¬ 
plained. “I seem unable to settle down. 
You see, I no longer have a home,” he ended 
pathetically. 

“You lost everything, then?” inquired Bog¬ 
dan kindly. 

The Serbian nodded. It was some time be¬ 
fore he could speak. But after the three had 
tramped on for some fifteen minutes, he broke 
the silence: 


60 


A Serbian’s Part in the War 61 


“When, enfeebled by disease as well as war, 
Serbia was besieged by her powerful and 
united enemies, only one course was left to 
her, as you know, and that was retreat. 
When the army decided that we must make 
our way to the sea over the terrible Albanian 
Mountains, old men, women, and children, 
seized with panic, followed us, and among 
these last were my two married sisters,—one 
with a babe in her arms,—and a younger sis¬ 
ter. My eight year old brother, Rada, had 
been very sick; so frightened though my 
mother was, she decided she would run the 
risk of remaining in Belgrade with him. We 
never saw either again. 

“We had not gone very far when snow 
began to fall, which changed later to an icy 
blizzard. The soldiers had little food, and 
some of that we shared with those dear to us 
who were following. We forded freezing 
rivers while famishing. Our shoes wore out 
and there were none to replace them: our feet 
left marks of blood on the white snow. We 
slept as we best could, with our scanty 
blankets, in the open, for we had neither time 
nor strength to put up even rude shelters. 

“Day after day, suffering and starvation 
claimed many of our band. My sister’s child 


62 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

was the first of my family to go. Its mother 
went soon after. When I shared my very 
meager soldier’s allowance with my two re¬ 
maining sisters, I could hardly bear to see 
them, so pitifully wasted did they Look. 

“At last we arrived at Durazzo, from 
where we were taken to the Island of Corfu 
and cared for by the allies. But of the first 
4,000 men of the army taken over, 900 died 
of exhaustion the first night alone. 

“The suffering which she had endured was 
more than my older sister could stand. Her 
life forces could not regain their old vital¬ 
ity, and at the end of the fifth day after 
reaching the refuge, she died. Dobrilla, my 
dear younger sister, did recover, and as soon 
as it was possible, offered herself as a nurse, 
and left for home. While in a hospital camp 
she contracted typhus fever, which was raging 
everywhere in the country, and her weakened 
system made it impossible for her to withstand 
the attack. 

“We had lost my father in the second Bal¬ 
kan War, when we had to fight Bulgaria. 
So, of a family of seven, I alone now remain.” 

As they neared Cettinje, the tiny Capital of 
the tiny Montenegrin State, their new acquaint¬ 
ance, who had endeared himself to them be- 



THE MAIN STREET OF THE TINY CAPITAL, CETTINJE. 















A Serbian’s Part in the War 63 

cause of all he had undergone, urged Bogdan 
and Milosh to spend the night with his 
pobratim, who he was sure would give them 
a warm welcome. But Bogdan felt they must 
hurry on. 

They had hardly parted from the Serbian, 
however, when they were attracted by a crowd 
that was gathering on the principal street. 
Interested in finding out what was going on, 
they pushed their way through. They found 
that the excitement was due to an old blind 
guslar, or minstrel, led by his grandchild, who 
was being urged to play and sing. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE GUSLAR 

* 

Guslars, generally blind like the one 
Bogdan and Milosh now saw, are still often 
met with in Serbia and Montenegro. They 
are not unlike the ancient bards of Homer’s 
time, or the minstrels of which Sir Walter 
Scott has written. 

The long white beard of the guslar reached 
almost to his waist as he seated himself on a 
rock. Resting his gusle, a mandolin shaped 
musical instrument with one string, against 
his knee, he drew a curved bow a few times 
slowly across it, making it give forth a monot¬ 
onous, droning sound. Then he began to 
chant: 

“The Yellow Moon took the Morning Star 
to task because she had remained so long out 
of his sight, but she excused herself by telling 
him the wonders she had seen.” 

Then with growing passion he told the 
glorious deeds of a heyduk, who, sorrowing 
that his people had been despoiled by the 

64 



LISTENING TO A BLIND GUSLAR. 










The Guslar 


65 

Turks, had taken to the woods, like a modern 
Robin Hood, to have his revenge; how 
followers had gathered about him; how he did 
no wrong, but only seized what had first been 
wickedly taken; and, finally, how he had made 
friends with a Turkish 'foe, not less brave 
and noble than himself, who had consented to 
a personal encounter. 

The Contest 

“Osman Beg leaped lightly from his horse 
and threw the bridle to some of his men. He 
was a splendid looking man, tall and slender 
and graceful. His eyes, black as night, 
framed by thick, velvety, and even blacker 
brows, looked at the world unafraid. He was 
dressed in his Turkish uniform, on which the 
gold buttons and gold braid of the black coat 
glittered from afar. He wore his red fez, 
with its rich long blue tassel, slightly to one 
side. 

“Osman Beg was respected by every Monte¬ 
negrin not only for the bravery which he had 
repeatedly shown, but also for his justice. 
He took from the villagers, it is true, but un¬ 
like many others, only that which the law 
allowed. 


66 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“Peko Filipov, the heyduk, was splendidly 
attired in the fine costume of our Montenegrin 
land. It, too, shone with its gold embroidery. 
He was six feet three in height, and so strong 
that he could lift an ox without effort. The 
fame of Peko Filipov had reached from one 
boundary of the country to the other. Stories 
without end were told of his daring, and every 
guslar was proud to sing of his deeds. 

“Now when the two met it was something 
never to be forgotten. 

“They stood opposite each other,—a splendid 
pair each with his right foot forward. Osman 
looked serious, but Peko was smiling. Peko 
placed his handzar and pistol to one side; 
Osman did the same. Such quiet reigned that 
the followers of each, gathered around, could 
hear the beating of their own hearts. 

“The two now measured each other. Peko, 
still smiling, placed one hand on his hip and 
raised the other toward Osman. Carelessly 
did he do this. It was as if he were merely 
stretching lazily, but, ah, to those closely 
watching it was seen how on the alert he really 
was as to what Osman’s move would be. 

“Very different was Osman’s attitude. His 
eyes flashed; his body quivered with impatience. 
Quickly, strongly his hand met Peko’s. Then 


The Guslar 


67 

those two fists alone struggled for supremacy. 

“Eight, nine, ten, twelve minutes did this 
last,—and not one inch was either able to make 
the other budge. 

“Then suddenly Osman withdrew the pres¬ 
sure of his arm. Peko, prepared, did not lose 
his balance, but merely stepped lightly to one 
side. Hardly had they touched hands again, 
when Peko withdrew his, but Osman stood as 
firmly as before. Peko raised his fist again 
as if to meet Osman’s, but instead he swiftly 
embraced him. Osman, ready, returned the 
embrace with interest. 

“Now began a wrestling match such as few 
present had ever before seen. Up and down 
the road they struggled, so closely clasped that 
you might have thought their two bodies were 
but one. Blood mounted to their cheeks; per¬ 
spiration ran in streams from their faces; their 
deep breathing was heard to the outer edge of 
the watching throng. 

“The minutes flew. An hour passed; then 
part of another. The spectators held their 
breaths as neither gained. 

“Then a little pet dog belonging to Osman 
Beg, somehow forced itself through the crowd 
and ran to its master. 

“The Turk saw him, and fearing to hurt 


68 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

him, relaxed his hold, oh! so slightly, as he 
gave the animal a gentle kick aside. But that 
tiny lessened resistance was all that Peko 
needed. With a sudden wrench free, he 
raised Osman up and flung him to the ground. 

“Now Peko had not seen the dog, and when 
he heard in the midst of the loud acclaims, some 
say: ‘It was the dog!’ he asked his good 
friend, Josip, who had come up, to tell him 
what they meant. And when Josip explained, 
Peko extended his hand to Osman, who with 
some difficulty had arisen, and said: 

“ ‘I cannot call that a victory. The match 
was a tie.’ 

“The blood was running from a wound that 
Osman had received on his head as he fell, and 
as some of his followers bound it, he insisted: 

“ ‘Not so! The victory is yours, and fairly 
won.’ 

“Then Peko became angry. 

“ ‘Did you not hear the people?’ he cried. 
"I tell you I will not have such a victory!’ 

“ ‘Let us settle it then with our swords,’ pro¬ 
posed Osman. 

“ ‘So be it,’ agreed Peko. 

“They placed themselves in position. A 
moment after their swords had crossed. But 
here again the two heroes proved equal one to 


The Guslar 


69 

the other. Until set of sun did the contest 
last. Their strength was fast ebbing when 
Peko cried: 

“ ‘Let us once more call it a tie, O brave 
Osman.’ 

“And Osman answered: ‘It is well, thou 
brave Montenegrin.’ 

“Osman Beg looked ghastly as he spoke, 
with the blood thick upon his face, for the 
bandage had fallen from his forehead. Peko 
was breathing hard and on his arm was a red 
gash. But they met each other’s eyes fear¬ 
lessly. 

“Then together both sheathed their swords, 
and as they did so, approached, without the 
words they could not utter, and kissed each 
other on the cheeks. 

“ ‘You will always be dear to me, O Turk, 
my now adopted brother, whom I once thought 
I hated,’ Peko at last found it possible to say. 

“ ‘And you, O brother, to me,’ returned 
Osman, clasping Peko’s hands. 

“And this was the beginning of a rare friend¬ 
ship, which lasted throughout the lives of 
Osman Beg, a Turkish hero, and our Peko 
Filipov, his former Montenegrin enemy.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

zorka’s adventure 

While Milosh was having these and many 
other new experiences in Montenegro, things 
were going on much as they had always gone 
on in his Croatian home, where Churo was 
taking his place. 

Summer with its excessive heat gave way to 
autumn, when every one in the rural sections of 
Croatia was looking forward to the time when 
the grain would be cut. 

Late one bright afternoon in the beginning 
of September, Zorka’s mother took her to the 
fields, from which she intended bringing home 
one of the pumpkins which grew big and round 
among the corn. She left her little daughter 
sitting on a great yellow one while she went 
some distance further on to where she had 
noted, a few days previous, that their water¬ 
melons also were ripening. 

Zorka sat still as long as she could see her 
mother’s dress in between the grain, then she 

slid down from her seat and looked around. 

70 


Zorka’s Adventure 71 

A bright colored butterfly flew past, and she 
stretched out her chubby hands, calling: 
“Come, come to Zorka.” 

It paid no heed but went on and on over the 
ripened grain. Zorka liked it; it was so pretty. 
She wanted to catch it and love it. So she 
followed where it flew. 

Further and further it took her; often flut¬ 
tering near, but never quite within her reach. 

At last it lit, and as Zorka hurried toward it, 
she stumbled and fell into a furrow, while the 
gay butterfly flew away out of sight. 

Zorka faised herself and sat still for several 
minutes. Where was she? She seemed to be 
far away in a new country. Everywhere was 
corn, corn, corn. She called in her soft baby 
voice, “Majka,” but no one answered. 

It was very quiet, and the little girl was be¬ 
ginning to feel sleepy when an odd rustling, 
crunching sound made itself heard near her. 
Zorka peered through the stalks but could see 
nothing. Then came a louder sound, and so 
nearly back of her that she gave a frightened 
turn, but still could see nothing. 

Suddenly there was a bound and a poor 
little hare, as frightened as herself, crouched 
trembling before her. Then with another 
bound it was out of sight, while Zorka began 


72 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

softly to cry, and call majka again; but the 
rustle of the corn in the wind completely 
drowned her tiny voice. 

After a time, tired out with the long walk 
and her fear, she cuddled down close to a big 
corn-stalk and fell asleep. 

In the meantime her mother had returned 
with a nice melon, and not finding Zorka any¬ 
where near, concluded that she had probably 
wandered home. But when she reached the 
house there was no Zorka there, and neither 
Draga, the little girl next door, nor her grand¬ 
mother, had seen anything of her. 

Now anxious, the mother hurried back to the 
field and sought everywhere in the direction 
opposite to that she herself had taken, but in 
vain. 

She could not have the help of Zorka’s 
father, for he was away on a three day trip to 
the neighboring sister state of Slavonia, where 
he intended purchasing two of the fine hardy 
horses which are raised there. She longed for 
Churo, who was herding as usual, to come. 
But the sun had already set when he joined her, 
for it was not until he returned with the pigs 
that he learned from the neighbors that Zorka 
. was lost. Several men and women came with 
him to assist in the search. 



zorka’s mother. 



















Zorka’s Adventure 


73 


The mother was crying. “Don’t be 
alarmed,” Churo said to her, looking very 
handsome and self-reliant. “You sit down 
now and rest. I’ll find my cousin.” 

And although all started at once to search, 
it was really Churo who found her under the 
corn-stalks, where she was still sleeping peace¬ 
fully. He gave a shout which was heard all 
over the field. Lifting the little girl,—who 
opened her eyes for a moment, and then seeing 
that it was her beloved cousin, closed them 
again,—he carried her to where all were 
gathered around the mother. 

Majka gave Churo such a grateful, loving 
look that he felt overpaid a thousand times. 
Then clasping Zorka, who was awake and 
gazing wonderingly around, close to herself, 
she gave her a gentle slap. 

“Naughty child!” she said, her voice quiver¬ 
ing with relief. “You mustn’t go off by your¬ 
self like that again; will you remember?” 


CHAPTER XIV 


VISITORS FROM SLAVONIA 

Zorka's father returned a day or two after 
his little daughter’s “big” adventure, and of 
course had to listen to long, detailed accounts 
of it. He did not come alone, but accompanied 
by two Slovenes,—a young married couple who 
were on their way to some relatives in Bosnia, 
—whom he had invited so cordially to stay over 
a day with his family, that they had consented 
to do so. 

They proved to be very pleasant guests. 
The man had a bronzed complexion, light-gray, 
melancholy looking eyes, a hooked nose, and 
long blond hair. His w T ife was not unlike him 
in appearance, but with a rounder face and a 
less serious expression. As such a journey was 
an event in their lives, they were wearing their 
holiday clothes. The man’s w r hite linen home- 
spun shirt, embroidered at the seams, was open 
at the throat. Over it was a little waistcoat 
with many silver buttons. His wide trousers 

were of blue cloth, fitting closely below the 

74 


Visitors from Slavonia 


75 


knee. Although he did not have it on, he had 
with him a big coat of uncut sheepskin. The 
wide belt, which now encircled his waist, went 
outside the coat when worn, and was capable of 
holding many things. As his special ornament 
he wore silver earrings. 

His wife’s costume consisted of a white, 
embroidered chemise with wide sleeves, a skirt 
of white linen, a scarlet apron, and bright 
knitted stockings. A white kerchief was knot¬ 
ted becomingly on her head. Her special dec¬ 
oration was a lovely blue bone-bead necklace, 
which looked as if it might be an heirloom. 
Both wore pliable shoes of undressed leather, 
evidently home made, the man’s being bound at 
the top by dried sheep thongs. 

The Slovene language which they used was a 
different dialect from the Serbian spoken in 
Croatia, but they had little difficulty in making 
themselves understood or in understanding 
their new friends. 

The young couple had with them a large 
photograph which they were taking to their 
relatives. It showed the courtyard of the 
Slovene inn owned by the bride’s father. One 
of the chief things in this courtyard was a 
pump with a big wooden wheel, near which 
waddled some ducks. Not far from this were 


76 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

two servants roasting a small pig over an open 
fire. The picture was much examined and ad¬ 
mired. 

In the evening many of the villagers came in 
to greet the Slovenes and to hear from them all 
they could about this part of Jugoslavia. The 
man was a good talker. He had recently 
been in Ljubljana (Laibach), the beautiful 
Slovene city of the section called Carniola, and 
had much to tell them of the charming valley 
in which it is found. 

“Is there much manufacturing there?” one 
man asked. 

“Oh, yes,” the Slovene answered; “espe¬ 
cially of pottery, bricks, linen and woolen 
goods, paper, fire-hose, and oil.” 

“All of that section of Jugoslavia,” the 
schoolmaster, who was present, now gave as his 
contribution, “was particularly stimulated by 
the creation of the Illyrian Provinces by 
Napoleon. We have always considered our 
debt to him very great, because the creation of 
these provinces was the first modern attempt 
at a reunion of the Serbian speaking people—' 
the Serbs, the Croats, and the Slovenes—in one 
state. For the first time after many centuries, 
the population recovered the free use of the 
national language in the schools and in public 


Visitors from Slavonia 77 

life, and were able to apply democratic prin¬ 
ciples under a good administration. It awoke 
the different peoples to a realization that they 
were one.” 

“Why were the provinces called Illyria?” 
Churo asked. 

“Illyria is the name that the ancient Greeks 
gave to lands bordering on the Adriatic, after 
the tribes who then lived there. The Roman 
word ‘Illyricum’ was used somewhat differ¬ 
ently. For a time the word disappeared from 
history, but being preserved in literature it was 
easy to revive it.” 

“There is a picture of ancient times in Slav¬ 
onia in our last Calendar given as a premium 
with a Ragusa newspaper,” said the mother. 
“Churo will find it.” 

Churo quickly did so, and all bent over it 
with interest. It represented the installation 
of a Solvene ruler very many years ago. The 
Prince, clothed in rustic garments, was walking 
toward a peasant standing on a great rock, 
while many persons were gathered in the back¬ 
ground. Under the illustration was written: 

Peasant: Who is this who comes? 

People: The Prince who would rule us. 

Peasant: Is he a good judge? 

People: He is. 


78 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Peasant: Is he the friend of truth? 

People: He is. 

Peasant: Then do I gladly give him my place so 
that he may swear to defend us from all enemies. 

This led to a discussion of the difference be¬ 
tween old and new ideals of government, after 
which some one sang a song, and the Slovene 
recited a patriotic poem by one of the great 
poets of his country,—Anton Ashkerc. 

It was entitled “The Ferryman,” and told of 
the brave sacrifice of his life made by an old 
fisherman to prevent Turkish spies reaching 
his people, who, considering their position safe, 
were unwatchful in their fortress. 

It is night, and the Turks who approach 
the old man offer rich bribes if he will guide 
them across the dangerous Sava in his little 
skiff, that they may learn the position of their 
Slav enemy. 

“Now silent are woodland and plain; 

The Slavs in yon stronghold have lain, 

Serene amid slumber abiding. 

Enwrapped in the mantle of night, 

We are sent to lay bare to our sight 

Whereabouts here our foes are in hiding. 


Visitors from Slavonia 


79 


They tell the fisherman: 

‘Lo! glittering gold of the Turk 

Shall richly requite thee thy work . . . 

An thou wilt not,—thy head we will sunder !’” 1 

The old man refuses their gold, but agrees 
to take them across the river. 

The Turks praise his boldness in guiding 
them amid the perils of the stream, and speak 
of the rich rewards that will accrue to them¬ 
selves for this piece of work. But they do not 
know the extent of their ferryman’s courage. 
Suddenly, in the heart of the rapids, the fisher¬ 
man throws his oar far out on the waves, 
shouting: 

“Make ready! . . . 

For us both here the payment is tendered!” 

A shriek, a wild swirl, and once more the 
night is still. 

1 Passages quoted are from the translation of P. Selver 
in “Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature.” 


CHAPTER XV 


AUTUMN AND WINTER IN CROATIA 

The Slovenes left next morning. 

A few days later the cutting of the grain 
was begun, the neighbors helping one another, 
according to their fine custom, so that the vil¬ 
lage spirit of friendliness and brotherhood 
grew. There was much talking and joking 
and singing of songs during this work, so that 
it hardly seemed like work at all. 

Everybody went to the fields; the babies 
and little ones playing together in the shade of 
the wagons, under the care of one of the older 
children. Churo, big strong boy that he was, 
did almost a man’s share of work; but every 
once in a while he was given his moments of 
rest when he carried around some sort of drink 
that was much relished by the dusty and heated 
workers. 

When the grain was harvested, the apples 
were gathered, some for market and some for 
the use of the family during the winter. Then 

all the boys were sent to the woods to bring in 

80 


Autumn and Winter 81 

the supply of fuel that would see them through 
the cold weather. 

This came early and proved unusually 
severe. But there was plenty of amusement 
as well as enough indoor work, even with the 
thermometer below zero. Spinning, dyeing, 
weaving, sewing and embroidering were the 
never-ending occupations of the women. Some 
of this work was strangely beforehand ac¬ 
cording to our notions, as where Zorka’s 
mother worked on things for the little three 
year old daughter’s bridal trousseau. 

Then men made their opankas or shoes, 
mended harness, fashioned and carved fur¬ 
niture, and did many other things for which 
they had no time during the busier seasons. 
Churo took considerable pleasure in making a 
frieze in the living-room of neatly lettered 
Serbian proverbs. Those which he chose 
were: 

Who often asks about the road is not apt 
to lose his way. 

Better an ounce of wisdom than a hundred¬ 
weight of physical strength. 

It is better not to begin than not to finish. 

When a man is not good himself, he likes 
to talk of what is bad in other people. 

Without health there is no wealth. 




82 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Every loss teaches men to be wiser. 

Earnest work is never lost. 

A mighty river owes its power to little 
brooks. 

It is an easy matter to throw a stone into the 
Danube, but very difficult to get it out. 

Whoever sings, cannot think badly. 

Give me a friend who will weep with me: I 
can find those who will laugh with me myself. 

Strike out new roads, but stick to your old 
friends. 

My castle may be small but I am its gover¬ 
nor. 

It is better to suffer injustice than to com¬ 
mit it. 

It is better to have a reputation of gold than 
a belt of gold. 

As long as a man honors himself no man can 
dishonor him. 

One of the events always looked forward 
to, was a spinning bee. This generally took 
place at the home of one of the unmarried 
women, where all the other girls of the village 
would be invited to come to help. It was sure 
to be a gay party, with much joking, guessing 
of riddles and story telling. Sometimes it was 
arranged that the young men should join the 


Autumn and Winter 83 

women later in the evening. This meant 
especial merriment, in which the kolo, one of 
the national dances, was almost always a 
feature. 

This dance seems very simple because there 
is nothing violent in its movements, but the 
steps are many and intricate, so that to be a 
good kolo dancer is something of a distinction. 
Churo especially, took to it, and young though 
he was, the girls were glad to have him join. 
Churo made his personality felt in other ways 
also. He was a sort of hero among the young 
people; not because of anything he had him¬ 
self done, but perhaps because he had the 
Montenegrin royal air and because he had a 
gift for describing things in such a way as to 
appeal to his hearers’ imaginations. 

No one in the village—even among the 
grownups—could equal him in his story telling, 
and whenever he consented to relate a folk, or 
other tale, he became a center of attraction. 
The younger people never tired of hearing 
about Kralyevich Marko and his numerous ad¬ 
ventures, and Churo told the many things he 
knew about him again and again. 

Majka particularly liked him to recite a 
poem called, “Slavu Slavi Kralyevich Marko,” 
which shows Marko’s great veneration for his 


84 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

mother, Yevrosima; in one case even endanger¬ 
ing his own life by not carrying arms, rather 
than act contrary to one of her requests. 

Majka also liked the boy to emphasize 
Yevrosima’s advice to Marko when he was 
called on to decide to whom the Serbian crown 
rightly belonged: 

“Let not thy rearing be accursed in thee, the son I 
bore, 

For thy father or thy brethren speak not false, 
whate’er the stress, 

But according to the living God speak out his 
righteousness; 

Hurt not spirit, Marko, save thou the soul, my son, 

Rather lose life than the soul should have a stain 
thereon.” 

“I have been to Prilip,” one day a Serbian 
visitor who was listening, said. “The ruins of 
the castle where Marko lived five hundred 
years ago, overlook the town. Some friends 
showed me hoof prints on the rocks near it, 
which they told me were made by Sharatz, his 
wonderful steed. They also said that at mid¬ 
night on his feast day Marko rides out, fully 
armed, on his piebald.” 

“Many people believe that he isn’t dead, 
but only sleeping in a mountain cavern,” some 


Autumn and Winter 85 

one else put in. “At the Battle of Prilip, dur¬ 
ing the Balkan War, the Serbian soldiers were 
commanded not to attack the Turks until the 
effect of their artillery was noted. Suddenly, 
however, despite their officers, they rushed for¬ 
ward and crossed their bayonets with those of 
their enemy. Very shortly after, the national 
colors were flying over Marko’s castle. They 
had won: When asked to explain their dis¬ 
obedience, they insisted that Marko Kralye- 
vich had at that moment appeared before them, 
mounted on Sharatz, and had shouted: ‘For¬ 
ward!’ and him they dared not disobey.” 

Outside of the Kralyevich Marko cycle of 
stories, a favorite with all was that of the mar¬ 
riage of the great Serbian Tsar, or Emperor, 
Dushan. 


CHAPTER XVI 


CHURO TELLS HOW THE MIGHTY TSAR DUSHAN 
WON THE FAIR ROKSANDA 

When Tsar Dushan the Mighty thought it 
time for himself to marry, he sent word to 
King Michael of Venetian Ledyen to beg that 
he give him as wife his daughter, Roksanda, 
whom he had never seen but of whose beauty 
many reports had reached him. Now after King 
Michael had given his consent, Dushan de¬ 
termined it were wise to assure himself that 
his proposed bride was really as attractive as 
he had been told. So he called Theodor, his 
State Counselor, to him, and requested him 
to go to Ledyen to arrange the necessary de¬ 
tails for the wedding. 

“But before we commit ourselves too far,” 
he commanded, “be sure that she is worthy in 
every way for one in my station.” 

Theodor promised, and set out at once for 
the Venetian province. King Michael re¬ 
ceived him cordially, and for a full week enter¬ 
tained him most hospitably. Not until then 

86 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 87 

did Theodor state his mission and that he was 
empowered, as customary, to present the en¬ 
gagement ring to the bride. 

To this the King answered: 

“Tell your most honored Tsar that he may 
come whenever he chooses and that he is at 
liberty to bring as many wedding guests with 
him as he will. Only one thing do I request 
of him: that among them are not included his 
two nephews, Voukashin and Petrashin Voino- 
vitch. Their quarrelsome reputation has 
reached even my ears, and I fear that in some 
way they might disturb the harmony I would 
desire on this great occasion. As for the Prin¬ 
cess, she will receive the ring from you to¬ 
night, as is the custom.” 

That night Theodor was led into a dark 
room. He was wondering when it would be 
lighted, when he became aware that the Prin¬ 
cess was there, too. He at once understood 
that this trick had been played on him to pre¬ 
vent his seeing her. However, the ring which 
the Tsar had sent was so brilliant that when 
he turned it toward the Princess it lit up her 
whole face. In its dazzling light she seemed 
to Theodor more fair than the fairest vila . 1 
Bowing low before her, he presented her not 

1 Fairy. 


88 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

only with the ring but with a gift of one thou¬ 
sand ducats from the Tsar, his master. She 
thanked him with a nod, and was then im¬ 
mediately led away by her brothers who were 
with her. 

Next morning Theodor left, and traveled 
fast until he was again at the Tsar’s palace. 
Dushan at once sent for him. 

“O my trusted messenger,” he said, “what 
news do you bring me from King Michael? 
And what have you to say of the fair Rok- 
sanda ?” 

Theodor gave the King’s gracious message, 
and then swore that the Princess was as beauti¬ 
ful and enchanting as a dream. 

The Tsar was delighted with everything ex¬ 
cept the news regarding his nephews. He 
swore a terrible oath at the fact that their ill 
fame should have spread so far. 

“I shall have both of them hanged, when I 
return, before their own castle walls, that 

they no longer shame me,” he said in his 
wrath. 

Then Tsar Dushan sent around invitations to 
all that he desired to accompany him on his 
wedding journey, which he was resolved to 
make at once. All came, as in duty bound, in 
their richest attire, and on splendidly capari- 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 89 

soned steeds, so that they formed a long, 
magnificent procession. 

Their way lay by the castle of the Voino- 
vitches, who watched them pass with sorrow in 
their hearts. 

“Who could have belied us to our Uncle, the 
Tsar?” they said one to the other; “For some 
one must have done so since he has not in¬ 
vited us. Alas, that he should have no rel¬ 
atives to accompany him, to give him help 
freely in case of need. The people of Ledyen 
are not to be trusted, for since ancient times 
Venetians have been known for their treachery. 
But what can we do?” 

Their aged mother now addressed them: 

“O my beloved children, have you forgotten 
that you have a brother,—Milosh the Shep¬ 
herd,—who is the greatest hero of vou all? 
He will uphold the name of Voinovich for 
you. Send for him, but that he surely come 
and come quickly, tell him that my days are 
drawing to an end and that I would fain see 
him before I die.” 

The brothers gladly agreed, and acted as 
their mother had advised. 

Now Milosh was herding sheep when the 
message came to him. He was so greatly af¬ 
fected that tears came to his eyes. When the 


go Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

other shepherds saw this, they questioned him 
as to what sorrow had come to him, since 
never before had they seen him weep. Milosh 
told them that his mother was dying, and that 
he must set out at once to be with her at the 
end. He begged them to care for his sheep 
while he was gone, which they readily promised 
to do. 

So Milosh hurried home, and when he came 
near, his brothers hastened to meet him, and 
to his surprise, his mother came with them. 

“O brothers,” he said reproachfully, “what 
is the meaning of this? Why have you de¬ 
ceived me?” 

“Wait before you judge us,” responded the 
brothers. “Come in, and we will tell you all.” 

When Milosh heard of how the Tsar had 
ridden away with no one who truly loved him 
near, he was very willing to join his Uncle as 
his brothers wished, to aid him should there be 
need. 

“You must not make yourself known,” the 
brothers cautioned. “Say that you have served 
a Turkish lord who refuses to pay you, 
and hence you have left to seek a better mas¬ 
ter.” 

Then Petrashin went out to get ready his 
splendid charger, Koulash, whose liken even 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 91 

the Tsar did not possess; while Voukashin 
clothed his brother as was befitting the repre¬ 
sentative of their family. First he put on him 
a fine shirt of linen, embroidered with gold 
from the neck to the waist, and from the waist 
down all white silk. Over this he placed three 
rich ribbons, then a waistcoat with thirty but¬ 
tons, and a golden cuirass. All this finery he 
covered entirely with a long, coarse Bulgarian 
cloak, and pulled a Bulgarian cap over 
Milosh’s head, so that no one could recognize 
him. Finally, he armed him with a splendid 
six-edged mace, a warrior’s lance, and his 
father’s trusty sword. 

Koulash, who was well known to the Tsar 
and his court, was also disguised, a big bear 
skin covering his back. 

“Be sure to hold Koulash in check,” both 
brothers advised as a parting word, “for he 
is used to going forward next to our Uncle’s 
own charger.” 

Milosh set out and soon overtook the wed¬ 
ding procession. All greeted him as a Bul¬ 
garian, and when he said he’d like to join the 
servants for food and drink alone, they bade 
him welcome. 

It happened that Milosh,—who as a shep¬ 
herd was accustomed to sleeping at noon,— 


92 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

did so now, and that Koulash, feeling the reins 
relaxed, leaped to the front like an arrow, 
overturning all who blocked his way, and 
placed himself next to the Tsar’s own 

steed. 

» 

There was great confusion, and it would 
have gone hard with Milosh had Dushan not 
come to his rescue. 

“All shepherds,” said the Tsar, “sleep at 
noon, so the poor fellow is not responsible for 
what his horse has done. Awake him gently, 
I order you.” 

Since the Tsar ordered it, this had to be 
done, angry though the lords about him still 
were. 

As soon as Milosh opened his eyes, he found 
himself in the front of the procession with 
Dushan himself gazing at him. Without a 
moment’s pause, he gathered in the reins firmly 
and spurred Koulash so that he quivered and 
then sprung three lances high into the air, and 
forward more lances than one could measure, 
while blue flames came forth from his nose and 
mouth. 

Then all the wedding guests wondered. 

“How comes it,” they said one to another, 
“that an ordinary Bulgar has such a steed? 
We only know of one such, and that is the pro- 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 93 

perty of the Tsar’s nephews, the brave Voino- 
vitches.” 

Among those who wondered were three 
heroes who resolved to deprive the Bulgarian 
of his steed. They kept near him, and when 
they and he were some distance from the 
others, they asked him whether he would not 
exchange his horse for another and better, with 
a hundred ducats besides, and oxen and a plow 
so that he need never starve. 

But Milosh answered: “Leave me, O 
heroes. Why should I want a better horse? 
I am satisfied. As for the ducats, I could not 
count so many. Now for the plow, my father 
never used one and yet our family did not 
starve.” 

The three were angry, and agreed that they 
must take the horse by force. 

When Milosh was told that they would do 
this, he pretended to be alarmed and willing to 
accept the exchange. He put his hand under 
his cloak as if to take off his spurs, but instead, 
when it came out, it held the six-edged mace, 
with which he tumbled over the nearest hero 
so that he rolled over three times. The others 
had taken to flight, but he overtook the second 
easily and hurled him, also, to the ground, so 
that he rolled over five times; and then Koulash 


94 O u r Little Jugoslav Cousin 

swiftly overtook the third, who met the same 
fate, only that he rolled over seven times. 

Milosh then hastened back to the wedding 
party, and nothing more occurred until they 
reached Ledyen and pitched camp under its 
walls. 

The equerries now gave barley to all the 
horses except Koulash. When Milosh saw 
this, he took Koulash’s nose-bag and going to 
each horse took a little of his food from him 
until Koulash had fully his share. 

Next Milosh asked for wine, and when this 
was refused, so frightened the keeper that he 
allowed him to help himself. 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOW THE MIGHTY TSAR DUSHAN WON 
THE FAIR ROKSANDA (Concluded) 

Shortly after, a page of King Michael 
called to the wedding party from a tall tower: 

“Listen, O thou Serbian Tsar! You, or 
some one who will take your part, must fight a 
duel with our King’s Champion, ere things go 
further. Else shall neither you, nor any one 
of your party, ever leave our gates alive, much 
less shall you have our glorious Princess in 
marriage.” 

Dushan at once sent a messenger among his 
guests to seek who would battle for him, but 
not one volunteered. 

Then the Tsar was angry: 

“Now I know,” he said, “why the King did 
not wish me to take my two dear nephews, the 
Voinovitches. If either of them were here, he 
would fight for me.” 

As he said this, Milosh appeared on his 
steed before him and begged that he be 
allowed to take his place. 

The Tsar was touched. 


95 


96 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“I am afraid it will go hard with you,” he 
said; “but should you succeed, I shall ennoble 
you.” 

Milosh, who had dismounted from his 
horse, remounted and carelessly threw his 
lance over his shoulder so that it pointed back¬ 
ward. 

The Tsar called to him: 

“Do not handle your lance that way or every 
one will laugh at you.” 

To this Milosh replied: 

“O Tsar, do not fear for me, for I know 
what I am doing. If need arises I shall use 
the weapon rightly, and if there be no need, 
what matters it?” And he rode away. 

As he went thus through the streets, the city 
maidens laughed: 

“The Tsar has a great champion!” they 
said. “Why he hasn’t even anything fit to 
wear!” 

When the nephew reached the Champion’s 
tent, he hurled his lance into the ground and 
fastened Koulash to it. Then he addressed 
the Venetian : 

“Rise, thou little fellow! Let us fight at 
once for the honor of our masters.” 

But the champion looked at him with dis¬ 
gust. 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 97 

“I’ll not fight with you,” he said. “You 
dirty fellow!” 

“Rise, thou proud Venetian,” said Milosh 
again, “and see me take thy rich clothing from 
thee.” 

The bully mounted his charger and caused 
him to prance and curvet around the field; then 
suddenly he hurled his lance straight at 
Milosh’s breast. But the latter was watchful, 
and caught it on his gold-headed mace and 
broke it into three pieces. 

This alarmed the Champion. 

“Wait!” he cried. “My lance was faulty. 
I shall get me another.” 

But Milosh leaped on Koulash and overtook 
him as he rode for the gates. Alas, for the 
bully, these were closed. As he paused, 
Milosh sent his lance after him, and trans¬ 
fixed him with it to the wall. Then he 
alighted, struck off the bully’s head, put it in 
Koulash’s nose-bag, caught the man’s steed, 
and with these rode to the tent of the Tsar. 

The Tsar was overjoyed. He showered the 
supposed Bulgarian with ducats and bade him 
feast. 

Scarcely had Milosh seated himself at a 
table, when the King’s page again appeared in 
the high tower to proclaim something new. 


98 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“O Tsar,” he cried, “in yonder meadow are 
three horses. On each of them is a flaming 
sword with the point upward. You, or some 
one for you, must leap over all three, or never 
leave this place alive, much less take with you 
our Princess Roksanda.” 

Again a messenger was sent among the 
guests, but no one volunteered to do what was 
required. The Tsar’s head was bowed in 
sorrowful thought, when Milosh again ap¬ 
peared before him and begged the privilege of 
doing what was asked. 

The Tsar consented, but anxious that his 
substitute should make a better figure than he 
had last time, begged him to take off his heavy 
coat. 

“There is no need to worry about me, O 
Tsar,” returned Milosh. “It’s the hero’s 
heart that matters and not the clothes he 
wears.” 

Then he went on to the meadow, where he 
found the steeds just as they had been des¬ 
cribed. He placed Koulash a certain number 
of steps from the third, and putting his arms 
about his neck, whispered into his ear: 

“Do not move a step from here, my beloved, 
until I come back to you.” 

He then went back a certain distance beyond 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 99 

the first steed, where, lifting himself on his 
toes a few times, he suddenly ran and leaped 
high over all three swords and straight on to 
the back of Koulash. Swiftly seizing the reins 
of the three steeds with their flaming swords, 
he rode with them to the Tsar’s tent. 

Dushan again gave him hundreds of ducats, 
and would have questioned him, when the page 
appeared a third time. 

“Under the hightest castle tower,” he 
announced, “is a thin lance on which is a golden 
apple. Twelve paces from it is a ring. 
Either you, O Tsar, or a substitute, must shoot 
an arrow through the ring into the apple, if 
you would depart in peace and have any hope 
that our Princess will go with you.” 

Without waiting, Milosh went to the Tsar 
and offered himself. 

“Thou hast been successful before,” the 
Tsar said, “but I greatly fear this newest test; 
yet go, and may God guide thy hand.” 

So Milosh went, and shot his arrow true. 
As the apple fell he caught it, and rode with it 
to the Tsar, who again gave him ducats with¬ 
out number. 

Then the page appeared for the fourth time. 

“You must now guess, O mighty Tsar, 
which of three maidens strikingly alike, is 


3 ? ) 

> , > 


100 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Roksanda. I fear to tell what will befall, if 
you so much as touch another.” 

The Tsar at once sent for Theodor, his 
Counselor of State, and bade him pick out the 
right maiden. But Theodor excused himself, 
saying that the circumstances under which he 
caught a glimpse of the Princess made it utterly 
impossible to be certain of her on another 
occasion. 

Then the Tsar was in despair, when once 
more Milosh stood before him. 

“May I guess for you, O glorious Tsar?” he 
asked. 

The Tsar smiled a little sad smile, as he 
inquired: 

“How dare you attempt that?” 

“O Tsar,” replied Milosh, “I could tell 
twelve thousand sheep apart, and when three 
hundred lambs were born, I knew the mother 
of each of them. I shall know the Princess, 
never fear, by her resemblance to her brothers 
who attend her.” 

“Go, then,” said Dushan, breathing deeply, 
“and God be again with you.” 

So Milosh went to where the three maidens 
awaited. They were very fair to see, and as 
much alike, at the first glance, as three peas in 
a pod. Milosh now took off his cloak and 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 101 


threw on it many rings and sparkling precious 
stones. Then he unsheathed his father’s 
sword: 

“The Princess Roksanda alone,” he said, 
“may gather these. If either of you two 
others so much as touch one of them, I will 
cut off her arms up to the very elbows.” 

Then he noted how two of the maidens 
looked at the third, and he, too, looked at her. 
She hesitated a moment, and then advanced 
and picked up all the jewels. When she had 
done so, the two others wished to escape, but 
Milosh would not allow them to do so, and led 
all three to the Tsar. 

As Dushan received Roksanda he arose and 
kissed his champion between the eyes, and said 
he knew not how he could repay him. 

It was now time to depart, and the Serbians 
hurried to do so. They had not gone far 
when Milosh came to Dushan with a new re¬ 
quest : 

“O great Tsar,” he said, “in the city Ledyen 
lives Balatchko, a terrible hero with three 
heads, from one of which he shoots forth a blue 
flame, from another a wind that freezes. He 
has been training for seven years to stop who¬ 
ever succeeds in the tests that have been given, 
and will follow you to take back the Princess. 


102 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Now I know him, and he knows me. Go on, 
but let me wait for him with three hundred of 
the heroes who are with you.” 

The Tsar, fearing for Roksanda, did as he 
was asked. 

Now in the Venetian city King Michael, 
much disturbed that all should have succeeded 
beyond his expectations, summoned Balatchko 
to him. 

“You know for what I have trained you,” 
he said. “Will you follow and bring me back 
my daughter?” 

But to the King’s surprise, Balatchko hesi¬ 
tated. 

“Who was that hero,” he asked, “who was 
always victor?” 

“Only a Bulgar,” answered the King. 

“Oh, no, King Michael,” returned Balatchko, 
“that was no Bulgar! It was Prince Milosh 
Voinovitch, whom I know, but whom even his 
Uncle has not recognized. He is no ordinary 
hero, and it is he I shall have to meet.” 

But the King urged and commanded, and at 
last promised that Roksanda would be Balatch- 
ko’s wife if he brought her back. 

Then Balatchko set out on his fine mare, 
Bedevia, taking with him six hundred cuiras¬ 
siers. At the edge of a nearby forest they 


Tsar Dushan Won Roksanda 103 

found Milosh, standing by the side of Koulash, 
awaiting them. 

“Oh, Milosh,” said Balatchko, riding up, 
“evidently thou awaitest me!” 

Then he let out the blue flame, but it only 
scorched the wool on Milosh’s coat. So he 
tried the freezing wind, which made Koulash 
fall three times into the dust, but did not effect 
his master at all. 

Milosh now hurled his six-edged mace at 
Balatchko, who no sooner fell than the Serb 
transfixed him with his lance. It was easy 
then to cut off his three heads, which he threw 
in Koulash’s nose-bag. 

Mounting his charger, the brave fellow now 
led his three hundred heroes against the six 
hundred cuirassiers. Full half of the number 
of Venetians lost their heads; the rest returned 
to the city in wild flight. 

It did not take Koulash long to bring his 
master back to the wedding party. Coming 
up to Dushan, Milosh cast the three heads at 
his feet. The Tsar gave him his last thousand 
ducats, and bade him ride at his side. 

When they neared the castle of the Voino- 
vitches, Milosh turned to part with Dushan: 

“May God be ever with you, my good and 
beloved Uncle,” he said. 


104 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

Then for the first time Dushan knew to 
whom he owed so much. 

“Is it thou, my dearest nephew?” he cried. 
“Happy am I that you are related to me, and 
happy, too, must be thy mother that she has 
given birth to such a hero as thou art!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HOME AGAIN 

Spring had again come, and Zorka’s mother 
was decorating the house with long, green tree 
branches, having just finished giving the rooms 
a cleaning even more vigorous than usual. 
Every once in a while she sang snatches of 
song, as she stopped her work to see if some 
special food that she was preparing was pro¬ 
gressing satisfactorily. 

Zorka, in a nice clean dress, sat playing on 
the floor near the big table on which stood a 
newly filled pitcher of water. She was con¬ 
tinually looking up to smile lovingly at her 
mother’s happy face. 

Something evidently was going to happen, 
for when Churo came to the door he had on 
his very best clothes. 

And then Zorka gave away the secret by 
saying: 

“My brother coming, Churo; my brother 
coming!’’ 

“But aren’t you a bit sorry that I’m going?” 
asked Churo. 


106 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

“Yes, yes,” the little girl answered, clinging 
to his hand. “Zorka want Milosh—want you 
too!” 

Then suddenly there came a shout from the 
courtyard. 

The mother dropped the branch which she 
was fastening to the wall, and ran to the door. 
The next moment she gave a cry, and threw 
her arms about Milosh, taller and browner 
than when he had left home. 

“But where is father?” the mother asked 
as soon as she could say anything, while Mi¬ 
losh gave Zorka a hearty kiss and hug. 

“Oh, he’ll be along in a minute. I insisted 
on his letting me run across the fields to sur¬ 
prise you. My, I’ve had a great experience, 
but it’s good to get home! I know you’ll 
feel the same, Churo,” Milosh added, turning 
to the latter and clasping him warmly by the 
hand. 

Churo nodded soberly, and then he, too, 
gave a cry, for there, coming down the street, 
was his brother Bogdan, whom he had not ex¬ 
pected to see until he was back in Montene¬ 
gro. 

“That is another surprise we planned,” 
laughed Milosh happily, as he stooped down 
and kissed Zorka again. “And oh, majka, 


Home Again 107 

just think, Bogdan has promised to spend two 
whole days with us before he takes away 
Churo!” 

Bogdan and the father now came in, and 
the mother just couldn’t wait until she had 
them all seated at the table and eating the 
good things that she had so bountifully pre¬ 
pared for this occasion. 

A little later neighbors dropped in by twos 
and threes, and coffee and cakes were served 
to all. 

“It’s a feast day all right,’’ said Milosh, and 
suddenly, after whispering something to 
Churo, both boys sprang into the open space 
in the center of the room, and, to the applause 
of all present, began a wild Montenegrin dance 
that Milosh had learned while in that country. 

Then a neighbor, entering into the spirit 
of the occasion, brought over a kind of flute, 
called a svirala } and played all sorts of sad as 
well as gay airs on it. 

“Let’s dance the kolo ,” some one suggested, 
and as the house was not large enough, a ring 
was formed right in the street. 

“And all in honor of my return!” Milosh 
whispered later to his mother, when the neigh¬ 
bors had departed. “Or is it because Churo’s 
leaving? Say, Bogdan,” he called out, “I’m 


108 Our Little Jugoslav Cousin 

almost jealous of your brother! Why, every¬ 
body treats me as if I were a child, but they 
treat him as if he were already a man! 
'Chu\ro! Churo! come here. Mother says 
you’ve been like a real son to her, and she 
says she thinks it would be fine if you and I 
became probratim ,—if we adopted each other 
as brothers, as you do so often in Montenegro, 
—before you leave!” 

And here Milosh recited a toast to that 
union, which he had memorized while away 
from home: 

“With thee, honored brother, with thee drink I to¬ 
day 

In God’s name. 

The Virgin bless thine earthly store; 

Increase thine honor more and more; 

Be near thy friend with helpful deed, 

But never thou his help to need. 

May God unite our house and land, 

As we thus grasp each other’s hand.” 


THE END 


Selections from 
The Page Company’s 
Books for Young People 

THE BLUE BONNET SERIES 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume . $1.T5 

A TEXAS BLUE BONNET 

By Caroline E. Jacobs. 

“ The book’s heroine, Blue Bonnet, has the very finest 
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BLUE BONNET’S RANCH PARTY 

By Caroline E. Jacobs and Edyth Ellerbeck Read. 
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By Caroline E. Jacobs and Lela Horn Richards. 

“ It is bound to become popular because of its whole¬ 
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BLUE BONNET — DEBUTANTE 

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An interesting picture of the unfolding of life for 
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BLUE BONNET OF THE SEVEN STARS 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

“ The author’s intimate detail and charm of narration 
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A —1 




THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


ONLY HENRIETTA 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.90 

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“Only Henrietta” 

By Lela Horn Richards. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.90 

“ One of the most noteworthy stories for girls issued 
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THE YOUNG KNIGHT 

By I. M. B. of K. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.65 

The clash of broad-sword on buckler, the twanging 
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Michael Faversham, orphaned nephew of Sir Gilbert 
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the sturdy hearts of the present-day American boy. 

A—2 




BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE MARJORY-JOE SERIES 

By Alice E. Allen 

Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illus¬ 
trated, per volume .$1.50 

JOE, THE CIRCUS BOY AND ROSEMARY 

These are two of Miss Allen’s earliest and most suc¬ 
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THE MARTIE TWINS: Continuing the Ad¬ 
ventures of Joe, the Circus Boy 

“ The chief charm of the story is that it contains so 
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MARJORY, THE CIRCUS GIRL 

A sequel to “Joe, the Circus Boy,” and “The Martie 
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MARJORY AT THE WILLOWS 

Continuing the story of Marjory, the Circus Girl. 

“ Miss Allen does not write impossible stories, but 
delightfully pins her little folk right down to this life 
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MARJORY’S HOUSE PARTY: Or, What Hap¬ 
pened at Clover Patch 

“ Miss Allen certainly knows how to please the chil¬ 
dren and tells them stories that never fail to charm.” 
—Madison Courier. 

MARJORY’S DISCOVERY 

This new addition to the popular MARJORY-JOE 
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A—3 




THE PAGE COMPANY'S 


THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES 

By Harrison Adams 

Each 12mo, doth decorative, illustrated, per 
volume ./ $1.65 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO; Ob, 

Clearing the Wilderness. 

“ Such books as this are an admirable means of stimu¬ 
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THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES; 

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THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSOURI; 

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“ Vivid in style, vigorous in movement, full of dramatic 
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THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE YELLOW¬ 
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“There is plenty of lively adventure and action and 
the story is well told.”— Duluth Herald, Duluth, Minn. 

THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLUMBIA; 

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“ The story is fuM of spirited action and contains mud? 
valuable historical information.”— Boston Herald. 

A—4 






BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


THE FRIENDLY TERRACE SERIES 

By Harriet Lummis Smith 
Each one volume, cloth, decorative, 12mo, illus¬ 
trated, per volume (except as otherwise noted) $1.65 

THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE 

“It is a book that cheers, that inspires to higher 
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out, and most of all it proves that in daily life, threads 
of wonderful issues are being woven in with what 
appears the most ordinary of material, but which in 
the end brings results stranger than the most thrilling 
fiction.”— Belle Kellogg Towne in The Young People's 
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PEGGY RAYMOND’S VACATION 

“It is a clean, wholesome, hearty story, well told 
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Observer. 

PEGGY RAYMOND’S SCHOOL DAYS 

“ It is a bright, entertaining story, with happy girls, 
good times, natural development, and a gentle earnest¬ 
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THE FRIENDLY TERRACE QUARTETTE 

“The story is told in easy and entertaining style 
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for while reading it they will surely live again in the 
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PEGGY RAYMOND’S WAY $1.75 

“ The author has again produced a story that is 
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“It possesses a plot of much merit and through its 
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which ranks it among the best books for girls.”— Cohoes 
American. 

A—5 



TEE PAGE COMPANTS 


FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES 

By Charles H. L. Johnston 

Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 
per volume ....... $2.00 

FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS 

“ More of such books should be written, books that 
acquaint young readers with historical personages in a 
pleasant, informal way.” — New York Sun. 

FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS 

“ Mr. Johnston has done faithful work in this volume, 
and his relation of battles, sieges and struggles of these 
famous Indians with the whites for the possession of 
America is a worthy addition to United States History.” 
— New York Marine Journal. 

FAMOUS SCOUTS 

“ It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascina¬ 
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FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVEN¬ 
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“The tales are more than merely interesting; they are 
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THE BORDER 

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the history of actual adventure.” — Cleveland Leader. 

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OF AMERICA 

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Who Led the United States and Her Allies to a Glo¬ 
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“ The pages of this book have the charm of romance 
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like portraits, the history of the World War.” — Roches * 
ter Post Express. 

A—6 



BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE 


FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES (Con.) 

By Edwin Wildman 

FAMOUS LEADERS OF INDUSTRY.—First 

Series 

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Boston Transcript. 

FAMOUS LEADERS OF INDUSTRY.—Second 
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“ As fascinating as fiction are these biographies, 
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hat.”— New York World. 

FAMOUS LEADERS OF CHARACTER: In 
America from the Latter Half of the Nine¬ 
teenth Century 

“ An informing, interesting and inspiring book for 
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reading.”— Cortland Standard. 

A—7 




THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


WORKS OF EVALEEN STEIN 

THE CHRISTMAS PORRINGER 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by Adelaide 
Everhart.$1.50 

This story happened many hundreds of years ago in 
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GABRIEL AND THE HOUR BOOK 

Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and 
decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart . . $1.50 

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A LITTLE SHEPHERD OF PROVENCE 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by Diantha 
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THE LITTLE COUNT OF NORMANDY 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by John Goss $1.50 

“ This touching and pleasing story is told with a 
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WHEN FAIRIES WERE FRIENDLY 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.65 

“ These stories are written for children in the ‘ believ¬ 
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word in the right place; the stories sing themselves 
out, they are so beautifully expressed.”— The Lafayette 
Leader. 

A—8 





BOOKS FOB YOUNG PEOPLE 


MR. DO SOMETHING; Of the Island of Make 

Believe 

By Blanche E. Wade. 

With 8 plates in full color, and many other 

illustrations, cloth decorative, 12mo . . . . $ 1.75 

The pervading genius of the story is “ Do Some¬ 
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spirit of “ Do Something,” the tedious hours of inaction, 
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DENISE OF THE THREE PINES 

By Edith A. Sawyer. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.65 

Denise is a modern heroine, brave and laughter- 
loving, with all the appeal and charm which go to 
make a fascinating character. 

LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG 

By Carolyn Veriioeff. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.65 

Imagine yourself in this position,—a little girl, mov¬ 
ing with your family to a new community, where the 
boys and girls are strange and unfriendly; then to your 
house come a little orphan and her dog, Billy. This is 
the story of the blossoming of little Constance’s charac¬ 
ter under the loving influence of the little orphan. And 
Billy, the dog, is quite an important character, as you 
will see. 

LITTLE GLAD HEART 

By Linda Stevens Almond. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated.$1.65 

This story is marked by a timely point of view. The 
story tells of the Warwick family, father, mother, Vir¬ 
ginia and Joan. Mr. Warwick has sent Virginia to 
school at a great sacrifice, and the association with girls 
of wealthy parents has made her dissatisfied with the 
simplicity of her home. In contrast to Virginia’s 
hauteur and selfishness are the kindly deeds of Joan, 
“Little Glad Heart.” 

A—9 




THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


•»> 


IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, . $1.10 

A LITTLE CANDY BOOK FOR A LITTLE GIRL 

By Amy L. Waterman. 

“ This is a peculiarly interesting little book, written in 
the simple, vivacious style that makes these little manuals 
as delightful to read as they are instructive.” — Nash¬ 
ville Tennessean and American. 

A LITTLE COOK-BOOK FOR A LITTLE GIRL 

By Caroline French Benton. 

This book explains how to cook so simply that no one 
can fail to understand every word, even a complete 
novice. 

A LITTLE HOUSEKEEPING BOOK FOR A 
LITTLE GIRL 

By Caroline French Benton. 

A little girl, home from school on Saturday mornings, 
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A LITTLE SEWING BOOK FOR A LITTLE 
GIRL 

By Louise Frances Cornell. 

“ It is comprehensive and practical, and yet revealingly 
instructive. It takes a little girl who lives alone with 
her mother, and shows how her mother taught her the 
art of sewing in its various branches. The illustrations 
aid materially .”—Wilmington Every Evening. 

A LITTLE PRESERVING BOOK FOR A 
LITTLE GIRL 

By Amy L. Waterman. 

In simple, clear wording, Mrs. Waterman explains 
every step of the process of preserving or “ canning ” 
fruits and vegetables. 

A LITTLE GARDENING BOOK FOR A LITTLE 
GIRL 

By Peter Martin. 

This little volume is an excellent guide for the young 
gardener. In addition to truck gardening, the book gives 
valuable information on flowers, the planning of the 
garden, selection of varieties, etc. 

A —10 





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